UNIVERSITY  OF 

ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 

AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 

STACKS 


Latest  Date  stamped  below. 


MW  2  4 1989 

JUN  0  6  1 
K«f  22 

SEP  13 


Copyright,    igor,  by  J.  C.  Hetnment 

EMPEROR'S  THRONE  IN  THE  FORBIDDEN  CITY 


Last  Days  of  Pekin 


Translated  from  the  French  of 
Pierre  Loti 

By 
MYRTA   L.  JONES 


Illustrated  from  Photographs^  and  Drawings 
by  yessie  B.  Jones 


Boston 

Little,  Brown,  and  Company 
1902 


Copyright,  igo2, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved 

Published  November,  190* 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS   •   JOHN  WILSON 
AND    SON     •      CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATION 

TO 

VICE-ADMIRAL   POTTIER 

Commander-m-  Chief  of  the  Squadron  of  the  Far  East 

ADMIRAL  :  — 

The  notes  which  I  sent  to  the  "Figaro"  from  China  are 
to  be  collected  in  a  volume  which  will  be  published  in  Paris 
before  my  return,  so  that  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  look 
.it  over.  I  am  therefore  a  little  uneasy  as  to  how  such  a  col- 
lection may  turn  out ;  it  will  doubtless  contain  much  repetition. 
Yet  I  beg  that  you  will  accept  this  dedication  as  a  token  of  the 
profound  and  affectionate  respect  of  your  first  aide-de-camp. 
You  will  be  more  indulgent  than  any  one  else,  because  you 
know  under  what  conditions  it  was  written,  —  from  day  to  day 
during  a  painful  campaign  in  the  midst  of  the  continual  excite- 
ment of  life  aboard  ship. 

I  have  restricted  myself  to  noting  the  things  which  have 
come  under  my  own  observation  while  undertaking  the  missions 
to  which  you  assigned  me,  and  in  the  course  of  the  journey 
which  you  allowed  me  to  take  into  a  certain  part  of  China 
hitherto  almost  unknown. 

When  we  reached  the  Yellow  Sea,  Pekin  had  been  taken, 
and  the  war  was  over.  I  could,  therefore,  only  observe  our 
soldiers  during  the  period  of  peaceful  occupation.  Under 
these  circumstances  I  have  seen  them  always  kind  and  almost 
fraternal  in  manner  toward  the  humblest  of  the  Chinese.  May 
my  book  contribute  its  small  part  toward  destroying  the 
shameful  stories  published  against  them  I 


vi  DEDICATION 

Perhaps  you  may  reproach  me,  Admiral,  for  saying  almost 
nothing  of  the  sailors  who  remained  on  our  ships,  who  were 
constantly  toiling  with  never  a  murmur  or  a  loss  of  courage 
during  our  long  and  dangerous  sojourn  in  the  waters  of 
Petchili.  Poor  sequestered  beings  living  between  steel  walls ! 
They  did  not  have,  to  sustain  them,  as  their  superiors  had, 
any  of  the  responsibilities  which  make  up  the  interest  of  life, 
or  the  stimulus  that  comes  from  having  to  decide  serious  ques- 
tions. They  knew  nothing,  they  saw  nothing,  not  even  the 
sinister  coast  in  the  distance.  In  spite  of  the  heat  of  a 
Chinese  summer,  fires  were  burning  day  and  night  in  their 
stifling  quarters ;  they  lived  bathed  in  a  moist  heat,  dripping 
with  perspiration,  coming  out  only  for  exhausting  drill-work 
in  small  boats,  in  bad  weather,  and  often  in  the  dead  of  night 
and  on  boisterous  seas. 

One  needs  but  a  glance  at  their  thin  pale  faces  now,  to 
understand  how  difficult  their  obscure  rQle  has  been. 

But  if  I  had  told  of  the  monotony  of  their  hardships,  and 
of  their  silent  unending  devotion,  no  one  would  have  had  the 
patience  to  read  me. 

PIERRE   LOTI. 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

THE  account  of  his  experiences  in  China, 
published  by  Pierre  Loti  under  the  title 
of  "  Les  Derniers  Jours  de  Pekin,"  first 
appeared  in  the  form  of  letters  written  to  the 
"  Figaro  "  from  China,  from  notes  taken  on  the  spot 
during  those  memorable  days  when  he  was  serving 
on  board  one  of  the  French  warships. 

Loti  has  written  little  of  late,  having  had  no  end  of 
trouble  with  his  naval  superiors,  through  jealousy, 
it  is  said,  of  his  literary  success. 

As  Julian  Viaud,  Loti  ranks  in  the  navy  as 
"  Lieutenant  de  vaisseau."  Some  time  ago  he  was 
abruptly  retired.  He  took  his  case  before  the 
"  Conseil  d'etat,"  which  finally  gave  a  verdict  in  his 
favor,  and  he  secured  the  nomination  of  officier 
d'ordonnance  at  the  time  of  the  Chinese  difficulties, 
during  which  he  resumed  his  literary  work  neglected 
in  a  measure  on  account  of  the  tribulations  con- 
nected with  his  naval  career. 


viii          TRANSLATOR'S   NOTE 

His  account  of  his  experiences  in  China  is  very 
personal  and  very  national,  yet,  exotic  that  it  is,  it 
presents  such  a  vivid  picture  of  certain  phases  of 
China  that  it  is  of  value  as  the  contribution  of 
an  observer  possessing  sympathy,  imagination,  and 
knowledge,  as  well  as  the  literary  sense,  to  the  his- 
tory of  our  own  times. 

MYRTA   L.  JONES. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  ARRIVAL  IN  THE  YELLOW  SEA i 

II.   AT  NING-HIA 9 

III.  ON  THE  WAY  TO  PEKIN 18 

IV.  IN  THE  IMPERIAL  CITY 81 

V.   RETURN  TO  NING-HIA 196 

VI.   PEKIN  IN  SPRINGTIME 202 

VII.  THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  EMPERORS       .     .     .     .  226 

VIII.  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  PEKIN 274 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Emperor's  Throne  in  the  Forbidden  City  Frontispiece 
French  Cavalry  Orderly  with  Despatches  .  Facing  Page  1 1 

Transports  on  the  Pei- Ho "  21 

The  Great  Wall  surrounding  the  Outer  City 

ofPekin "  57 

Chen-Mun  Gate  to  Pekin "  73 

The  Temple  of  Heaven "  79 

Marble  Bridge  over  Moat  before  Southern 

Gate  of  the  Forbidden  City  ....  "  85 
The  Big  Tower  or  Wall  Entrance  of  Tartar 

City "         103 

The  Executive  Palace  of  the  Emperor  in 

the  Forbidden  City "  145 

An  Imperial  Palace "  167 

Priceless  Porcelains  and  Bronzes  in  the 

Third  Palace,  Forbidden  City  ...  "  181 

The  Mouth  of  the  Pei-Ho "  202 

Chinese  Village  Carts,  the  only  Vehicle  used 

in  the  North  of  China «         230 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Non-commissioned    Officers   and   Men    of 

French  Artillery  and  Marines      .     .      Facing  Page  235 

Chinese    Peasants    cultivating  Rice   Fields 

with  Native  Plow "         246 

The  Lake  and  Southern  View  of  Summer 

Palace "         275 


The  Last  Days  of  Pekin 


THE   ARRIVAL   IN   THE  YELLOW  SEA 

MONDAY,  Sept.  24,  1900. 

VERY  early  morning,  on  a  calm  sea  and 
under  a  starry  sky.  A  light  on  the  eastern 
horizon  shows  that  day  is  about  to  break, 
yet  it  is  still  night.  The  air  is  soft  and  moist.  — 
Is  it  the  summer  of  the  North,  or  the  winter  of  a 
warm  climate?  Nothing  in  sight  on  any  side,  no 
land,  no  light,  no  sail,  no  indication  of  any  place 
—  just  a  marine  solitude  in  ideal  weather  and  in 
the  mystery  of  the  wavering  dawn. 

Like  a  leviathan  which  conceals  itself  in  order 
to  surprise,  the  big  iron-clad  advances  silently  with 
determined  slowness,  its  engines  barely  revolving. 

It  has  just  covered  five  thousand  miles  almost 
without  pausing  to  breathe,  constantly  making 
forty-eight  turns  of  the  screw  to  a  minute,  ac- 
complishing without  stopping  and  without  dam- 
age of  any  sort,  and  without  much  wear  and 
tear  of  its  substantial  machinery,  the  longest  jour- 
ney, at  the  highest  rate  of  sustained  speed,  that  a 
monster  of  its  size  has  ever  undertaken,  thus  de- 


2      THE    LAST    DAYS    OF   PEKIN 

feating  in  this  important  test  ships  reputed  to  be 
faster,  and  which  at  first  sight  might  be  thought 
superior  in  speed. 

This  morning  it  has  arrived  at  the  end  of  its 
journey,  it  is  about  to  reach  a  part  of  the  world 
whose  name  but  yesterday  was  unknown,  but 
toward  which  the  eyes  of  Europe  are  now  turn- 
ing. This  sea,  where  the  morning  light  is  calmly 
breaking,  is  the  Yellow  Sea,  it  is  the  gulf  of  Pet- 
chili,  from  which  one  reaches  Pekin.  An  im- 
mense fighting  squadron  must  already  be  assembled 
very  near  us,  although  as  yet  nothing  indicates 
its  vicinity. 

We  have  been  two  or  three  days  crossing  this 
Yellow  Sea  in  beautiful  September  weather.  Yes- 
terday and  the  day  before,  junks  with  sails  of  mat- 
ting have  crossed  our  route,  on  their  way  to  Corea ; 
shores  and  islands  more  or  less  distant  have  ap- 
peared, but  at  the  present  moment  the  entire  circle 
of  the  horizon  is  empty. 

Since  midnight  we  have  been  moving  slowly, 
in  order  that  our  expected  arrival  in  the  midst  of 
this  fleet  of  ships  —  which  is  to  be  attended  with 
obligatory  military  pomp  —  should  not  take  place 
at  too  early  an  hour. 

Five  o'clock.  Out  of  the  semi-obscurity  sounds 
the  music  of  the  reveille,  the  gay  trumpeting, 


ARRIVAL   IN   YELLOW   SEA        3 

which  each  morning  arouses  the  sailors.  It  is 
earlier  than  usual,  so  that  there  may  be  ample 
time  to  perform  the  toilet  of  the  iron-clad,  which 
has  lost  some  of  its  freshness  during  forty-five 
days  at  sea.  We  still  see  nothing  but  empty  space, 
and  yet  the  lookout,  from  his  post  aloft,  reports 
black  smoke  on  the  horizon.  This  small  cloud  of 
coal  smoke,  which  from  below  looks  like  nothing, 
betokens  a  formidable  presence ;  it  is  produced  by 
great  steel  ships,  it  is  the  breath  of  this  unprece- 
dented squadron  which  we  are  about  to  join. 

Before  the  ship's  toilet  comes  that  of  the  crew. 
Barefooted  and  bare-chested,  the  sailors  splash  in 
the  water  in  the  dawning  light.  In  spite  of  con- 
tinual hard  work,  they  are  no  more  tired  than  the 
ship  that  carries  them.  The  Redoutable  is,  of  all 
the  ships  that  departed  so  suddenly,  the  only  one 
which  has  had  neither  death  nor  sickness  on  board, 
even  in  crossing  the  Red  Sea. 

Now  the  sun  has  risen  clear  above  the  horizon, 
a  yellow  disk  which  slowly  climbs  upward  from 
behind  the  quiet  waters.  For  us,  who  have  just 
left  equatorial  regions,  this  rising,  luminous  as  it 
is,  has  I  know  not  what  of  melancholy  and  of  dul- 
ness,  which  savors  of  autumn  and  a  northern  cli- 
mate. Really  in  two  or  three  days  the  sun  has 
changed.  Now  it  no  longer  burns,  it  is  no  longer 
dangerous,  we  cease  to  fear  it. 


4      THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

In  front  of  us,  from  out  the  cloud  of  coal 
smoke,  far-off  objects  begin  to  emerge,  perceptible 
only  to  the  eye  of  the  mariner ;  a  forest  of  spears, 
one  should  say,  planted  away  off  at  the  end  of 
space,  almost  beyond  the  range  of  vision.'  We 
know  what  they  are,; — the  giant  chimneys,  the 
heavy  fighting  masts,;  the  terrible  paraphernalia  of 
( warfare,  which,  with  the  smoke,  reveal  from  afar 
the  modern  squadron.  When  our  morning  clean- 
ing,is  over,  when,  every  thing  has  been  washed  with 
buckets  cnt  sea  water ,..  the  Redoutable  increases  her 
speed  to  the  averagetof  eleven  and  a  half  knots  an 
hour,  which  she  has  .nteintained  since  her  departure 
from  France.  And  while  the  sailors  are  busy  mak- 
ing the  brass  and  copper  shine,  she  begins  again  to 
trace  her  deep  furro\v^Sirojugh  the  tranquil  waters. 
Objects  on  the,  smoky -horizon  line  begin  to 
stand  forth  and  take -shape.  Below  the.  ,innumer- 

«•— 

able  'masts,  masses  of  .qvery  form  and  color  are 

'  •      •      .  --  TT 

distinguishable.  These  <are  the  ships  themselves. 
Between  the  calm  water  Jtnd  the  pale  sky  lies  the 
whole  terrible  company,  an  assemblage  of  strange 
monsters,  some  white  and  yellow,  others  white 
and  black,  others  the  color  of  slime  or  of  fog,  in 
order  to  make  them  less  easily  distinguishable. 
Their  backs  are  humped  and  their  sides  half  sub- 
merged and  hidden  like  big  "uneasy  turtles.  Their 
structures  vary  according  to  the  conceptions  of 


ARRIVAL   IN    YELLOW    SEA        5 

different  persons  in  regard  to  engines  of  destruc- 
tion, but  all  alike  breathe  forth  horrible  coal  smoke, 
which  dulls  the  morning  light. 

No  more  of  the  coast  of  China  is  visible  than  if 
we  were  a  thousand  leagues  away  or  than  if  it  did 
not  exist.  Yet  we  are  close  to  Taku,  the  meeting- 
place  toward  which  for  so  many  days  our  minds 
have  been  bent.  It  is  China,  close  by  although  in- 
visible, which  attracts  by  its  nearness  this  herd  of 
beasts  of  prey,  and  which  keeps  them  as  immov- 
able as  fallow  deer  at  bay,  at  this  precise  point  on 
the  seas,  until  some  one  speaks  the  word. 

The  water,  here  where  it  is  less  deep,  has  lost 
its  beautiful  blue,  to  which  we  have  so  long  been 
accustomed,  and  has  become  troubled  and  yellow, 
and  the  sky,  although  cloudless,  is  decidedly  mel- 
ancholy. Our  first  impression  of  this  whole  scene, 
of  which  we  shall  undoubtedly  for  a  long  time 
form  a  part,  is  one  of  sadness. 

But  now  as  we  draw  nearer  and  the  sun  rises 
there  is  a  change,  and  the  beautiful  shining  iron- 
clads with  their  many-colored  flags  begin  to  stand 
out.  It  is  indeed  a  remarkable  squadron  that 
here  represents  Europe,  —  Europe  armed  against 
gloomy  old  China.  It  occupies  an  infinite  amount 
of  space,  the  whole  horizon  seems  crowded  with 
ships,  and  small  boats  —  little  steam  tugs  —  hurry 
like  busy  people  among  the  big  motionless  vessels. 


6      THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

Now  cannon  on  all  sides  begin  a  military  wel- 
come for  our  admiral,  beneath  the  heavy  curtain 
of  black  smoke;  the  gay  light  smoke  from  powder 
blossoms  like  sheaves  and  goes  off  in  white  masses, 
while  up  and  down  the  iron  masts  the  tricolor 
rises  and  falls  in  our  honor.  Everywhere  trum- 
pets sound,  foreign  bands  play  our  Marseillaise, 
—  one  is  more  or  less  intoxicated  with  this  cere- 
monial, always  the  same  yet  always  superb,  which 
here  borrows  an  unaccustomed  magnificence  on 
account  of  the  display  of  the  fleet. 

And  now  the  sun  is  at  last  awake  and  shining, 
adding  to  the  day  of  our  arrival  a  last  illusion  of 
midsummer  heat,  in  this  country  of  extreme  sea- 
sons; in  two  months'  time  it  will  begin  to  freeze 
up  for  a  long  winter. 

When  evening  comes,  our  eyes,  which  will 
weary  of  it  soon  enough,  are  feasted  upon  a 
grand  fairy-like  spectacle,  given  for  us  by  the 
squadron.  Suddenly  electric  lights  appear  on  all 
sides,  white,  or  green,  or  red,  twinkling  and  spark- 
ling in  a  dazzling  manner ;  the  big  ships,  by  means 
of  a  play  of  lights,  converse  with  one  another,  and 
the  water  reflects  thousands  of  signals,  thousands 
of  lights,  while  the  rockets  race  for  the  horizon  or 
pass  through  the  sky  like  delirious  comets.  One 
forgets  all  that  breeds  death  and  destruction  in 


ARRIVAL   IN   YELLOW   SEA       7 

this  phantasmagoria,  and  for  the  moment  feels 
oneself  in  the  midst  of  a  great  city,  with  towers, 
minarets,  palaces,  improvised  in  this  part  of  the 
world  especially  for  this  extravagant  nocturnal 
celebration. 

September  25. 

It  is  only  the  next  day  and  yet  everything  is 
different.  A  breeze  came  up  in  the  morning, — 
hardly  a  breeze,  just  enough  to  spread  over  the 
sea  big  vague  plumes  of  smoke.  Already  furrows 
are  being  made  in  this  open  and  not  very  deep 
roadstead,  and  the  small  boats,  continually  going 
and  coming,  bob  up  and  down  bathed  in  spray. 

A  ship  with  the  German  colors  appears  upon 
the  horizon  just  as  we  appeared  yesterday;  it  is 
immediately  recognized  as  the  Herta,  bringing 
Field-Marshal  von  Waldersee,  the  last  one  of  the 
military  commanders  expected  at  this  meeting- 
place  of  the  Allies.  The  salutes  that  yesterday 
were  for  us,  begin  anew  for  him,  the  whole  mag- 
nificent ceremony  is  repeated.  Again  the  cannon 
give  forth  clouds  of  smoke,  mingling  tufts  of  white 
with  the  denser  variety,  and  the  national  air  of 
Germany  is  taken  up  by  all  the  bands,  and  borne 
on  the  rising  wind. 

The  wind  whistles  stronger,  stronger  and  colder ; 
a  bad  autumn  wind,  that  plays  about  the  whalers 


8      THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

and  the  tugs,  which  yesterday  circulated  readily 
among  the  various  groups  of  the  squadron. 

It  presages  difficult  days  for  us,  for  in  this  un- 
certain harbor,  which  in  an  hour's  time  becomes 
dangerous,  we  shall  have  to  land  thousands  of 
soldiers  sent  from  France  and  thousands  of  tons 
of  war  supplies.  Many  people  and  many  things 
must  be  moved  over  this  rough  water,  in  barges 
or  in  small  boats,  in  the  cold  and  even  in  the 
night,  and  must  be  taken  to  Taku  across  the  river's 
changing  bar. 

To  organize  this  long  and  perilous  undertaking 
is  to  be  our  task  —  that  of  the  marines  —  during 
the  first  few  months,  an  austere,  exhausting,  and 
obscure  role  without  apparent  glory. 


'  II 

AT   NING-HIA 

Oct.  3,  1900. 

IN  the  gulf  of  Petchili  on  the  beach  at  Ning- 
Hia,   lighted   by   the  rising   sun.      Here  are 
sloops,  tugs,  whalers,  junks,  their  prows  in 
the  sand,  landing  soldiers  and  war  supplies  at  the 
foot  of  an  immense  fort  whose  guns  are  silent.    On 
this  shore  there  is  a  confusion  and  a  babel  such 
as  has  been  seen  in  no  other  epoch  of  history. 
From    these    boats    where    so    many    people    are 
disembarking,    float    pell-mell    all    the    flags    of 
Europe. 

The  shore  is  wooded  with  birches  and  willows, 
and  in  the  distance  mountains  with  strange  out- 
lines raise  their  peaks  to  the  clear  sky.  There  are 
only  northern  trees,  showing  that  the  winters  in 
thjs  country  are  cold,  and  yet  the  morning  sun  is 
already  burning ;  the  far-off  peaks  are  magnificently 
violet,  the  sun  shines  as  in  Provence.  Standing 
about  among  the  sacks  of  earth  collected  for  the 
erection  of  hasty  defences,  are  all  kinds  of  people. 
There  are  Cossacks,  Austrians,  Germans,  English 


io     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

midshipmen,  alongside  of  our  armed  sailors ;  little 
Japanese  soldiers,  with  a  surprisingly  good  mili- 
tary bearing  in  their  new  European  uniforms ;  fair 
ladies  of  the  Russian  Red-Cross  Society,  busy 
unpacking  material  for  the  ambulances;  and  Ber- 
saglieri  from  Naples,  who  have  put  their  cock- 
feathers  onto  colonial  caps. 

There  is  something  about  these  mountains  in 
this  sunshine,  in  this  limpid  air,  that  recalls  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean  on  autumn  mornings. 
Not  far  away  an  old  gray  structure  rises  among  the 
trees,  twisted,  crooked,  bristling  with  dragons  and 
monsters.  It  is  a  pagoda.  The  interminable  line 
of  ramparts  which  winds  about  and  finally  loses 
itself  behind  the  summits  of  the  mountains  in  the 
distance,  is  the  Great  Wall  of  China,  which  forms 
the  boundary  of  Manchuria. 

The  soldiers  who  disembark  barefooted  in  the 
sand,  gaily  calling  out  to  one  another  in  all  tongues, 
seem  to  be  the  sort  who  are  easily  amused.  What 
they  are  doing  to-day  is  called  "  a  peaceful  cap- 
ture," and  it  seems  more  like  a  celebration  of  uni- 
versal fusion,  of  universal  peace,  yet  not  far  from 
here,  in  the  vicinity  of  Tien-Tsin  and  of  Pekin, 
the  country  is  in  ruins  and  is  strewn  with  the 
dead. 

The  necessity  for  occupying  Ning-Hia,  of  hold- 
ing it  as  a  base  of  supplies,  had  been  impressed 


Copyright,  1901,  by  J.  C.  Hemment 

FRENCH  CAVALRY  ORDERLY  WITH  DESPATCHES 


AT   NING-HIA  n 

upon  the  admirals  of  the  international  squadron, 
and  day  before  yesterday  all  the  ships  had  pre- 
pared for  a  struggle,  knowing  that  the  forts  on  the 
shore  were  well  armed ;  but  the  Chinese  who  lived 
here,  warned  by  an  official  that  a  formidable  com- 
pany of  cuirassiers  would  appear  at  daybreak,  pre- 
ferred to  leave  the  place  —  so  we  found  it  deserted 
on  our  arrival. 

The  fort  which  overlooks  the  shore  and  which 
forms  the  terminus  of  the  Great  Wall  at  its  sea 

end,  has  been  declared  international. 

\ 

The  flags  of  the  seven  allied  nations  float  there 
together,  arranged  in  alphabetical  order  at  the 
end  of  long  poles  guarded  by  pickets,  —  Austria, 
France,  Germany,  Great  •  Britain,  Italy,  Japan, 
Russia. 

The  other  forts  scattered  over  the  surrounding 
heights  have  been  apportioned,  the  one  belonging  to 
France  being  situated  about  a  mile  from  the  shore. 
It  is  reached  by  a  dusty  road,  bordered  with  birches 
and  frail  willows,  which  crosses  gardens  and 
orchards  turning  brown  at  the  same  season  as 
our  own,  —  gardens  exactly  like  ours,  with  mod- 
est rows  of  cabbages  and  pumpkins  and  long  lines 
of  lettuce.  The  little  wooden  houses  too,  scat- 
tered here  and  there  among  the  trees,  resemble 
those  of  our  villages,  with  red  tiled  roofs,  vines 
trained  in  garlands,  and  little  beds  of  zinnias, 


12     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

asters,  and  chrysanthemums.  It  is  a  country 
which  should  be  peaceful,  happy,  yet  which  has  in 
two  days'  time  become  depopulated  through  fear 
of  the  approach  of  the  invaders  from  Europe. 

On  this  fresh  October  morning  the  sailors  and 
soldiers  of  all  nations  are  hurrying  and  skurrying 
along  the  shaded  road  that  leads  to  the  French 
fort,  seeking  the  pleasures  of  discovery;  amusing 
themselves  in  a  conquered  land,  catching  chickens 
and  pilfering  salads  and  pears  from  the  gardens. 
The  Russians  are  taking  down  the  Buddhas  and 
gilded  vases  from  a  pagoda.  The  English  are 
driving  with  sticks  the  cattle  captured  in  the  fields. 
The  Dalmatians  and  the  Japanese  —  fast  friends 
of  an  hour's  standing  —  are  making  their  toilet 
together  on  the  banks  of  a  stream,  and  two  Bersa- 
glieri  who  have  caught  a  little  donkey  are  riding 
it  astride,  almost  bursting  with  laughter. 

And  yet  the  sad  exodus  of  Chinese  peasants 
which  began  yesterday  still  continues;  in  spite  of 
the  assurance  given  them  that  no  harm  would  be 
done  to  any  one,  those  who  were  left  felt  them- 
selves too  near  and  preferred  to  flee.  Whole  fam- 
ilies departed  with  bowed  heads;  men,  women, 
children,  all  dressed  alike  in  blue  cotton  gowns, 
and  loaded  with  baggage,  even  the  babies  resign- 
edly carrying  their  little  pillows  and  mattresses. 

One  scene  was  heart-breaking.    An  old  Chinese 


AT    NING-HIA  13 

woman  —  very,  very  old,  perhaps  a  hundred  years 
old  —  who  could  scarcely  stand  up,  was  going, 
God  knows  where,  driven  from  her  home,  where 
a  company  of  Germans  had  established  themselves ; 
she  went  away,  dragging  herself  along  with  the 
help  of  two  young  lads  who  may  have  been  her 
grandsons  and  who  supported  her  as  best  they 
could,  looking  at  her  with  infinite  respect  and  ten- 
derness. Seeming  not  to  see  us  and  looking  as 
though  she  had  nothing  further  to  expect  from 
any  one,  she  passed  slowly  by,  her  poor  face  filled 
with  despair,  with  supreme  and  irremediable  dis- 
tress, whilst  the  soldiers  behind  her  were  throwing 
away  with  shouts  of  laughter  the  unpretentious 
images  from  the  altar  of  her  ancestors.  The 
beautiful  sunshine  of  the  autumn  morning  shone 
calmly  on  her  well-cared-for  little  garden,  bloom- 
ing with  zinnias  and  asters. 

The  fort  which  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  French 
occupies  almost  the  space  of  a  town  with  all  its 
dependencies,  lodgings  for  mandarins  and  soldiers, 
electrical  work-shops,  stables,  and  powder  maga- 
zines. In  spite  of  the  dragons  that  adorn  the 
gates  and  in  spite  of  the  clawed  monster  painted 
on  a  stone  slab  in  front  of  the  entrance,  it  is  con- 
structed upon  the  most  recent  principles  —  plas- 
tered, casemated,  and  provided  with  Krupp  guns  of 
the  latest  models.  Unfortunately  for  the  Chinese, 


i4     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

who  had  accumulated  in  the  vicinity  of  Ning-Hia 
some  terrifying  defences,  —  mines,  torpedoes,  fou- 
gades,  and  intrenched  camps,  —  nothing  was  fin- 
ished, nothing  completed  anywhere ;  the  movement 
against  foreigners  began  six  months  too  soon, 
before  they  had  gotten  into  working  order  all  the 
material  Europe  had  sold  to  Li-Hung-Chang. 

A  thousand  Zouaves  who  are  to  arrive  to-mor- 
row are  to  occupy  this  fort  during  the  winter; 
while  awaiting  their  arrival  we  have  simply 
brought  along  a  score  of  sailors  to  take 
possession. 

It  is  curious  to  go  among  these  houses,  aban- 
doned in  haste  and  terror,  and  to  find  ourselves  in 
the  midst  of  the  disorder  of  precipitate  flight; 
broken  fufniture  and  dishes,  clothing,  guns,  bay- 
onets, ballistic  books,  boots  with  paper  soles,  um- 
brellas, and  ambulance  supplies  are  piled  pell-mell 
before  the  doors.  In  the  kitchens  dishes  of  rice 
are  ready  for  the  oven,  with  plates  of  cabbage  and 
cakes  made  of  fried  grasshoppers. 

There  are  shells  everywhere,  cartridges  strew 
the  grounds,  gun-cotton  is  dangerously  dispersed, 
and  black  powder  is  scattered  in  long  trains.  But 
side  by  side  with  this  debauch  of  war  materials, 
droll  details  attest  the  human  side  of  Chinese  life; 
on  all  the  window-sills  are  pots  of  flowers,  on  all 
the  walls  are  household  gods  placed  there  by  the 


AT   NING-HIA  15 

soldiers.  The  familiar  sparrow  abounds  here,  and 
is  never  interfered  with,  it  seems,  by  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  place,  and  from  the  roofs  the  cats, 
circumspect  but  anxious  to  enter  into  relations 
with  us,  are  observing  the  sort  of  menage  that 
will  be  possible  with  such  unexpected  hosts  as 
ourselves. 

Very  near  us,  a  hundred  metres  from  our  fort, 
passes  the  Great  Wall  of  China.  It  is  surmounted 
at  this  point  by  a  watch  tower,  where  the  Japanese 
are  now  established,  and  there  they  have  planted 
their  white  flag  on  a  barnboo  stick  in  the  red 
sunlight. 

Always  smiling,  especially  at  the  French,  the 
little  Japanese  soldiers  invite  us  to  come  up  to  see 
from  above  the  surrounding  country. 

The  Great  Wall,  seven  or  eight  hundred  metres 
thick  at  this  point,  descends  gently  amid  green 
grass  on  the  Chinese  side,  but  drops  vertically  on 
the  side  toward  Manchuria,  where  it  is  flanked 
by  enormous  square  bastions. 

We  mount,  and  at  our  feet  we  see  the  wall 
plunging  on  one  hand  into  the  Yellow  Sea,  while 
on  the  other  it  rises  to  the  summits  of  the  moun- 
tain and  goes  winding  on  through  the  fields  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  see,  giving  the  impression 
of  a  colossal  thing  which  never  comes  to  any 
end. 


16     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

Toward  the  east  we  have  a  view,  in  this  clear 
light,  of  the  deserted  plains  of  Manchuria. 

Toward  the  west  —  in  China  —  the  wooded 
country  has  a  deceptive  look  of  peace  and  confi- 
dence. All  the  European  flags  hoisted  on  the  forts 
have  a  festive  air  amid  all  the  green.  It  is  true 
that  on  a  plain  near  the  shore  there  are  evidences 
of  an  immense  movement  of  Cossacks,  but  they  are 
far  away  and  the  noise  does  not  reach  us,  though 
there  are  at  least  five  thousand  men  among  the 
tents  and  among  the  flags  which  are  stuck  into  the 
ground.  Where  the  other  powers  send  to  Ning- 
Hia  only  a  few  companies,  the  Russians  on  the 
contrary  proceed  in  great  masses,  because  of  their 
designs  on  neighboring  Manchuria.  Shan-Ha'i- 
Kouan,  the  Tartar  village  which  has  closed  its 
gates  through  fear  of  pillage,  appears  in  the  dis- 
tance, gray  and  mute  as  though  asleep  behind  its 
high  crenellated  walls.  On  the  sea  off  toward  the 
horizon,  rests  the  squadron  of  the  Allies,  —  a  fleet 
of  steel  monsters  with  black  smoke,  friends  for  the 
moment,  silently  assembled  in  the  motionless  blue. 

The  weather  is  calm,  exquisite,  buoyant.  The 
prodigious  rampart  of  China  blossoms  at  this 
season  like  a  garden.  Between  its  sombre  bricks, 
loosened  by  time,  asters,  and  quantities  of  pinks 
like  those  at  the  seashore  in  France  are  pushing 
their  way  through. 


AT   NING-HIA  17 

This  legendary  wall,  which  has  for  centuries 
stopped  all  invasion  from  the  north,  will  probably 
nevermore  see  the  yellow  flag  and  the  green  dragon 
of  the  Celestial  emperors.  Its  time  has  gone  by, 
passed,  is  forever  at  an  end. 


Ill 

ON  THE  WAY  TO   PEKIN 

I 

THURSDAY,  Oct.  n,  1900. 

AT  noon,  on  a  beautiful  calm  day  that  is 
almost  warm  and  very  luminous  on  the 
water,  I  leave  the  admiral's  ship,  the  Re- 
doutable,  to  go  on  a  mission  to  Pekin. 

We  are  in  the  gulf  of  Petchili  on  the  road  to 
Taku,  but  at  such  a  distance  from  the  shore  that 
it  is  not  visible,  so  there  is  no  indication  of  China 
anywhere. 

The  trip  begins  with  a  short  ride  on  a  steam 
launch,  which  takes  us  out  to  the  Bengali,  the 
little  despatch-boat  which  will  bring  me  to  land 
by  to-night. 

The  water  is  softly  blue  in  the  autumn  sunshine, 
which  is  always  bright  in  this  part  of  the  world. 
To-day,  by  chance,  the  wind  and  the  waves  seem 
to  sleep.  As  far  as  one  can  see,  great  war-ships 
succeed  one  another,  motionless  and  menacing. 
As  far  as  the  horizon  there  are  the  turrets,  the 


ON   THE   WAY  TO   PEKIN       19 

masts,  the  smoke  of  the  astonishing  international 
squadron  with  all  its  train  of  satellites,  torpedo 
boats,  transports,  and  a  legion  of  packet-boats. 

The  Bengali,  upon  which  I  am  about  to  embark 
for  a  day,  is  one  of  the  little  French  ships  carrying 
troops  and  war  supplies,  which  for  a  month  past 
has  been  painfully  and  wearisomely  going  and 
coming  between  the  transports  or  freighters  arriv- 
ing from  France,  and  the  port  of  Taku  beyond  the 
Pei-Ho  bar. 

To-day  it  is  full  of  Zouaves,  —  brave  Zouaves 
who  arrived  yesterday  from  Tunis,  careless  and 
happy,  bound  for  this  ominous  Chinese  land. 
They  are  crowded  on  the  bridge,  packed  to- 
gether, their  faces  gay  and  their  eyes  wide  open 
for  a  glimpse  of  China,  which  has  filled  their 
thoughts  for  weeks  and  which  is  now  near  at 
hand,  just  over  the  horizon. 

According  to  ceremonial  custom,  the  Bengali, 
when  it  appears,  must  pass  the  stern  of  the  Re- 
deniable  to  salute  the  admiral.  The  music  waits 
behind  the  armor,  ready  to  play  one  of  those 
marches  so  intoxicating  to  the  sailor.  And  when 
we  come  up  close  to  the  big  ship,  almost  under 
its  shadow,  all  the  Zouaves  —  those  destined  to 
return  as  well  as  those  who  must  perish  —  wave 
their  red  caps  to  the  sound  of  the  bugle,  with  hur- 
rahs for  the  ship,  which  here  represents  France 


20     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

to  their  eyes,  and  for  the  admiral,  who  from  the 
bridge  raises  his  cap  in  their  honor. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  China  appears. 

Never  has  an  uglier  and  more  forbidding  shore 
surprised  and  congealed  poor  newly  arrived  sol- 
diers. A  low  shore,  a  gray  barren  land  without 
tree  or  grass.  Everywhere  there  are  forts  of 
colossal  size  of  the  same  gray  as  the  earth,  masses 
of  geometrical  outline  pierced  by  embrasures  for 
guns.  Never  has  the  approach  to  a  country  pre- 
sented a  more  extensive  or  aggressive  military 
array;  on  both  sides  of  the  horrible  stream  with 
its  muddy  waters  loom  similar  forts,  giving  the 
impression  of  a  place  both  terrible  and  impreg- 
nable, giving  the  impression  also  that  this  harbor, 
in  spite  of  its  wretched  surroundings,  is  of  the  first 
order  of  importance,  is  the  key  to  a  great  country, 
and  gives  access  to  a  city  large,  rich,  and  powerful 
—  as  Pekin  must  have  been.  From  a  nearer  view 
the  walls  of  the  first  two  forts,  stained,  full  of 
holes,  and  ravaged  by  cannon-balls,  bear  witness 
to  furious  and  recent  battles. 

We  know  how,  on  the  day  Taku  was  taken, 
they  exhausted  their  strength  on  one  another.  By 
a  miracle,  a  French  shell  from  the  Lion  fell  right 
into  one  of  them,  causing  the  explosion  of  its 
enormous  powder  magazine  so  that  the  yellow 
gunners  lost  their  heads.  The  Japanese  then 


TRANSPORTS  ON  THE  PEI-HO 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       21 

seized  this  fort  and  opened  an  unexpected  fire  on 
the  one  opposite,  and  immediately  the  overthrow 
of  the  Chinese  began.  Had  it  not  been  for  this 
chance,  for  this  shell,  and  for  this  panic,  all  the 
European  gunners  anchored  in  the  Pei-Ho  would 
inevitably  have  been  lost ;  the  landing  of  the  Allies 
would  have  been  impossible  or  problematical,  and 
the  whole  face  of  the  war  changed. 

We  now  move  up  the  river  through  the  muddy 
infected  water  where  impurities  of  all  sorts  are 
floating,  as  well  as  the  bodies  of  men  and  animals. 
On  both  of  the  sombre  shores  we  see  by  the  light 
of  the  declining  sun  a  procession  of  ruins,  a  uni- 
form black  and  gray  desolation  of  earth,  ashes,  and 
calcined  slopes,  tumbled  walls,  and  ruins. 

On  this  pestilential  river  a  feverish  animation 
reigns,  so  that  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  make  our 
way  through  the  obstructions.  Junks  by  the  hun- 
dreds, each  flying  the  colors  and  having  at  the 
stern  the  name  of  the  nation  by  whom  it  is  em- 
ployed —  France,  Italy,  United  States,  etc.  —  in 
big  letters  above  the  devilry  of  the  Chinese  in- 
scription, besides  a  numberless  flotilla  of  towing 
vessels,  lighters,  colliers,  and  packets. 

On  the  terrible,  steep,  muddy  banks,  amongst 
filth  and  dead  animals,  there  is  an  ant-like  activity. 
Soldiers  of  all  the  armies  of  Europe  mingle  with 
coolies  driven  with  sticks,  unpacking  military 


22     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

stores,  tents,  guns,  wagons,  mules,  horses.  Such 
a  confusion  as  never  was  of  uniforms,  rubbish, 
cannons,  debris,  and  provisions  of  all  kinds.  An 
icy  wind  which  rises  toward  evening  makes  us 
shiver  after  the  hot  sun  of  the  day  and  brings 
with  it  the  gloom  of  winter. 

Before  the  ruins  of  a  quarter  where  the  flag 
of  France  is  floating,  the  Bengali  approaches  the 
lugubrious  shore,  and  our  Zouaves  disembark 
rather  discountenanced  by  the  sombre  reception 
given  them  by  China.  While  waiting  for  some 
sort  of  a  shelter  to  be  provided,  they  light  fires 
on  the  shore  which  the  wind  fans  into  flame,  and 
there  they  heat  their  evening  meal  in  darkness  and 
silence  and  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of  infected  dust. 

On  the  deserted  plain  from  which  the  dust,  the 
cold,  and  the  squalls  come,  the  black  devastated 
town,  overrun  with  soldiers,  extends,  breathing 
pestilence  and  death. 

A  small  street  through  its  centre,  hastily  rebuilt 
in  a  few  days'  time  with  mud,  broken  timbers,  and 
iron,  is  lined  with  dubious-looking  taverns.  Men 
from  I  don't  know  where,  mongrels  of  every  race, 
sell  absinthe,  salt-fish,  and  deadly  liquors  to  the 
soldiers.  There  is  some  drunkenness,  and  occa- 
sionally knives  are  drawn. 

Outside  of  this  improvised  quarter  Taku  no 
longer  exists.  Nothing  but  ruined  walls,  burned 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       23 

roofs,  piles  of  ashes,  and  nameless  receptacles  of 
filth,  wherein  are  huddled  together  old  clothing, 
dogs,  and  human  heads  covered  with  hair. 

I  slept  on  board  the  Bengali,  this  hospitality 
having  been  extended  to  me  by  the  commander. 
Occasional  shots  break  the  nocturnal  silence,  and 
toward  morning  I  hear  —  although  half  asleep  — 
horrible  cries  uttered  by  the  Chinese  on  shore. 

FRIDAY,  October  12. 

I  rose  at  daybreak  to  go  and  take  the  train, 
which  still  runs  as  far  as  Tien-Tsin  and  even  a 
little  beyond.  Farther  on,  the  road  having  been 
destroyed  by  Boxers,  I  shall  continue  I  do  not 
yet  know  how,  either  in  a  Chinese  cart,  in  a  junk, 
or  on  horseback,  and  from  all  accounts  cannot 
count  on  seeing  the  great  walls  of  Pekin  for  six 
or  seven  days.  I  have  an  order  which  will  secure 
me  rations  from  the  posts  along  the  road,  other- 
wise I  should  run  the  risk  of  dying  from  hunger 
in  this  ravaged  land.  I  have  as  little  baggage  as 
possible,  nothing  but  a  light  canteen,  and  but  one 
travelling  companion,  a  faithful  servant  brought 
from  France. 

At  the  station,  where  I  arrive  at  sunrise,  I  find 
again  all  yesterday's  Zouaves,  their  knapsacks  on 
their  backs.  No  tickets  are  necessary  for  this 


24     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

railway,  everything  military  is  carried  by  right  of 
conquest.  Along  with  Cossack  and  Japanese  sol- 
diers a  thousand  Zouaves  pile  into  carriages  with 
broken  panes  through  which  the  wind  whistles.  I 
find  a  place  with  their  officers,  and  very  soon  we 
are  calling  up  memories  of  Africa,  where  they 
have  been,  and  longing  for  Tunis  and  Algeria  the 
White. 

We  are  two  hours  and  a  half  on  the  road 
across  the  mournful  plain.  At  first  it  was  only 
gray  earth  as  at  Taku ;  then  there  were  reeds  and 
herbage  touched  with  frost.  On  all  sides  are  im- 
mense splashes  of  red,  like  blood  stains,  due  to 
the  autumn  flowering  of  a  kind  of  marsh  plant. 
On  the  horizon  of  this  desert  myriads  of  migra- 
tory birds  may  be  seen,  rising  like  clouds,  eddy- 
ing and  then  falling.  The  north  wind  blows  and 
it  is  very  cold. 

Soon  the  plain  is  peopled  with  tombs,  —  tombs 
without  number,  all  of  the  same  shape,  —  each 
one  a  kind  of  cone  of  earth  piled  up  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  ball  of  faience,  —  some  small,  like 
little  huts,  others  as  large  as  camping  tents.  They 
are  grouped  according  to  families  and  they  are 
legion.  The  entire  country  is  a  burial-place  with 
a  gory  look  resulting  from  the  splashes  of  red  to 
which  I  have  referred. 

At  the  stopping-places  where  the  ruined  stations 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       25 

are  occupied  by  Cossacks,  there  are  calcined  cars 
— damaged  by  fire — and  locomotives  riddled  with 
balls.  At  other  places  we  do  not  stop  because 
there  is  nothing  left ;  the  few  villages  which  mark 
this  vicinity  are  all  destroyed. 

Tien-Tsin!  It  is  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Pierced  by  the  cold,  we  step  down  amid  the  clouds 
of  dust  which  the  north  wind  perpetually  scatters 
over  this  dried-up  country.  We  are  taken  in  hand 
by  Chinese  scouts,  who,  without  even  knowing 
where  we  want  to  go,  trot  off,  at  full  speed,  with 
us  in  their  little  carriages.  The  European  streets 
along  which  they  are  running  (here  called  "  con- 
cessions "),  seen  through  a  cloud  of  blinding  dust, 
have  the  look  of  a  big  city,  but  the  almost  luxuri- 
ous houses  are  riddled  with  shells,  literally  ripped 
open  and  without  roofs  or  windows.  The  shores 
of  the  rivers,  here  as  at  Taku,  are  like  a  fevered 
babel;  thousands  of  junks  lie  there,  unloading 
troops,  horses,  guns.  In  the  streets  where  Chinese 
workmen  are  carrying  enormous  loads  of  war 
supplies,  one  meets  soldiers  of  all  the  nations  of 
Europe,  officers  in  every  sort  of  uniform,  on  horse- 
back, in  chairs,  or  on  foot.  And  there  is  of  course 
a  perpetual  interchange  of  military  salutes. 

Where  are  we  to  lay  our  heads?  Really,  we 
have  no  idea,  in  spite  of  our  desire  for  a  shelter 


a6     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

from  the  icy  wind  and  dust.  However,  our  Chinese 
runners  keep  on  like  rolling  balls. 

We  knock  at  the  doors  of  two  or  three  hotels 
which  have  risen  up  among  the  ruins  out  of  a  con- 
fusion of  broken  furniture.  Everything  is  full, 
full  to  overflowing;  gold  will  not  buy  a  loft  with 
a  mattress. 

Willy-nilly  we  must  beg  our  board  and  lodging 
from  unknown  officers,  who  give  us  the  most 
friendly  hospitality  in  houses  where  the  holes 
made  by  shot  and  shell  have  been  hastily  stopped 
up  so  that  the  wind  may  no  longer  enter. 

SATURDAY,  October  13. 

I  have  chosen  to  travel  by  junk  as  far  as  the 
course  of  the  Pei-Ho  will  permit,  the  junk  serving 
as  a  lodging  in  this  country  where  I  am  forced  to 
dally. 

This  makes  necessary  many  little  preparations. 

The  first  thing  is  to  make  a  requisition  for  this 
junk  and  to  appropriate  this  species  of  sarcophagus 
where  I  am  to  live  under  a  roof  of  matting.  The 
next  is  to  buy  in  the  more  or  less  ruined  shops  of 
Tien-Tsin  the  things  necessary  for  a  few  days  of 
nomadic  life,  from  bedding  to  arms ;  and  lastly,  to 
hire  from  the  Lazarist  Fathers  a  Chinese  person  to 
make  tea,  —  young  Toum,  aged  fourteen,  with  the 
face  of  a  cat  and  a  queue  reaching  to  the  ground. 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       27 

I  dined  with  General  Frey,  who,  with  his  small 
French  detachment,  was,  as  every  one  knows,  ,the 
first  to  enter  the  heart  of  Pekin,  the  Imperial  City. 
He  was  good  enough  to  relate  to  me  in  detail  this 
magnificent  journey,  the  taking  of  the  Marble 
Bridge  and  his  final  entrance  into  the  Imperial 
City,  —  that  mysterious  place  which  I  shall  soon 
see,  and  into  which  before  him  no  European  had 
ever  penetrated. 

As  to  my  own  small  personal  expedition,  which 
in  comparison  with  his  appears  so  easy  and  unim- 
portant, the  general  kindly  concerned  himself  with 
what  we  were  to  drink  en  route,  my  servant  and  I, 
in  this  time  of  infection,  when  the  water  is  a  con- 
stant danger  on  account  of  human  remains,  thrown 
there  by  the  Chinese,  left  lying  in  all  the  wells; 
and  he  made  me  a  present  of  untold  value,  —  a 
case  of  eau  d'Evian. 


II 

THE   TWO   GODDESSES    OF   THE   BOXERS 

SUNDAY,  October  14. 

AN  old  Chinese  woman,  wrinkled  as  a  winter  apple, 
timidly  opens  the  door  at  which  we  have  loudly 
knocked.  It  stands  in  the  deep  shadow  of  a  nar- 
row passageway  exhaling  unhealthy  fetid  smells, 


28     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

between  walls  blackened  by  filth,  where  one  feels 
as  shut  in  as  in  the  heart  of  a  prison. 

The  old  woman,  an  enigmatical  figure,  looks  us 
all  over  with  a  blank  impenetrable  gaze ;  then  recog- 
nizing among  us  the  chief  of  the  international 
police,  she  silently  steps  aside  and  permits  us  to 
enter.  We  follow  her  into  a  dark  little  court. 
Poor  late  autumn  flowers  are  growing  in  the  old 
walls,  and  we  breathe  faint  sickly  odors. 

We  are  a  group  of  officers,  three  French,  two 
English,  and  one  Russian,  who  are  there  clearly 
by  right  of  conquest. 

Our  conductor  is  a  strange  creature,  balancing 
on  the  tips  of  her  incredibly  small  feet.  Her  gray 
hair  fastened  with  long  pins  is  so  tightly  drawn 
back  that  it  seems  to  raise  her  eyes  unduly.  Her 
dark  dress  is  indefinite  in  color,  but  her  parchment- 
like  face  bears  to  a  high  degree  that  something 
appertaining  to  a  worn-out  race,  which  we  are 
wont  to  call  distinction.  She  appears  to  be  only 
a  servant,  yet  her  aspect,  her  carriage,  are  discon- 
certing; some  mystery  broods  over  her,  she  seems 
like  a  refined  matron  who  has  resorted  to  a  shame- 
ful clandestine  occupation.  This  whole  place, 
moreover,  is  difficult  to  describe  to  those  who  do 
not  know  it. 

Beyond  the  court  is  a  sordid  vestibule,  then  a 
door  painted  black,  with  a  Chinese  inscription 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       29 

consisting  of  two  big  red  letters.  Without  knock- 
ing, the  old  woman  draws  the  bolt  and  opens  it. 

We  may  be  mistaken,  but  we  have  come  in  all 
good  faith  to  pay  a  visit  to  two  goddesses,  —  pris- 
oners kept  shut  up  in  this  palace.  For  here  we 
are  in  the  common,  the  lower  dependencies,  the 
secret  places  of  the  palace  of  the  viceroy  of  Pet- 
chili,  and  to  reach  this  spot  we  have  had  to  pass 
over  the  immense  desolation  of  a  town  with  cy- 
clopean  walls  which  is  at  present  only  a  mass  of 
debris  and  dead  bodies. 

The  animation  of  these  ruins,  accidentally 
peopled  by  joyous  soldiers,  is  singular,  unique, 
on  this  Sunday,  which  is  a  holiday  in  camp  and 
barracks.  In  the  long  streets  rilled  with  wreckage 
of  all  kinds,  Zouaves  and  African  chasseurs,  arm- 
in-arm  with  Germans  in  pointed  helmets,  pass  gaily 
between  the  walls  of  roofless  houses.  There  are 
little  Japanese  soldiers,  shining  and  automatic, 
Russians  with  flat  caps,  plumed  Bersaglieri,  Aus- 
trians,  Americans  with  big  felt  hats,  and  Indian 
cavalrymen  with  enormous  turbans.  All  the  flags 
of  Europe  are  floating  over  the  ruins  of  Tien-Tsin, 
which  has  been  partitioned  by  the  allied  armies. 
In  certain  quarters  the  Chinese  who  have  gradually 
returned,  after  their  flight,  have  established  bazars 
in  the  open  air  in  the  lovely  sunshine  of  this 
autumn  Sunday,  —  bazars  where  in  the  midst  of 


30     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

incendiary  ashes  they  sell  to  the  soldiers  articles 
picked  up  in  the  ruins,  porcelains,  jars,  silk  dresses, 
furs.  There  are  so  many  of  these  soldiers,  so  many 
uniforms  of  every  kind  on  our  route,  so  many 
sentinels  presenting  arms,  that  we  grow  weary 
returning  the  many  salutes  received  as  we  pass 
through  this  unheard-of  babel. 

At  the  farther  side  of  the  destroyed  city,  near 
the  high  ramparts  in  front  of  the  palace  of  the 
viceroy,  where  we  are  going  to  see  the  goddesses, 
some  Chinese,  undergoing  torture  in  a  kind  of 
pillory,  are  lined  up  along  the  wall,  with  inscrip- 
tions above  them  describing  their  offences.  Two 
pickets  guard  the  doors  with  bayonetted  guns, 
one  an  American,  the  other  a  Japanese,  standing 
alongside  of  the  horrible  grinning  old  stone  mon- 
sters who  watch,  crouching,  on  either  side  of  the 
entrance. 

There  is  nothing  sumptuous,  nothing  great  in 
this  dusty,  decrepit  palace  which  we  have  traversed 
unheeding,  but  it  speaks  of  real  China,  of  old 
China,  grimacing  and  hostile.  There  is  a  profu- 
sion of  monsters  in  marble,  in  broken  faience,  and 
in  worm-eaten  wood,  falling  to  pieces  from  sheer 
old  age  or  threatening  from  the  edges  of  roofs  to 
do  so;  frightful  forms  half  buried  in  sand  and 
ashes,  with  horns,  claws,  forked  tongues,  and  big 
squinting  eyes. 


ON   THE   WAY  TO   PEKIN       31 

In  the  grim  walled  court  a  few  late  roses  are 
still  in  blossom  under  trees  a  century  old. 

Now,  after  various  turns  along  badly  lighted 
passages,  we  reach  the  goddesses'  door,  —  the  one 
marked  with  two  big  red  letters.  The  old  Chinese 
woman,  ever  mute  and  mysterious,  with  head  held 
high  but  with  lifeless  eyes  persistently  downcast, 
pushes  open  the  black  doors,  with  a  gesture  of 
submission  which  means :  "  Here  they  are,  look 
at  them !  " 

In  a  room  which  is  almost  dark  and  where  the 
evening  sun  never  enters,  two  poor  girls,  two  sis- 
ters who  look  alike,  are  seated  with  bowed  heads 
amid  lamentable  disorder,  in  positions  indicative 
of  supreme  consternation,  —  one  on  a  chair,  the 
other  on  the  edge  of  an  ebony  bed  which  they  must 
share  at  night.  They  are  dressed  in  humble  black, 
but  here  and  there  on  the  floor  are  scattered  shin- 
ing silks  and  tunics  embroidered  in  big  flowers 
and  gold  chimeras,  —  the  garments  they  put  on 
when  going  to  meet  the  armies,  in  the  midst  of 
whistling  bullets  on  days  of  battle,  —  their  attire 
as  warriors  and  goddesses. 

For  they  are  a  kind  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  —  if  it  is 
not  blasphemy  to  pronounce  a  name  of  almost 
ideal  purity  in  this  connection,  —  they  are  the  god- 
desses of  the  incomprehensible  Boxers,  so  atro- 
cious and  at  the  same  time  so  admirable :  hysterical 


32     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

creatures,  exciting  both  the  hatred  and  terror  of 
the  foreigner,  who  one  day  fled  without  fighting 
in  a  panic  of  fear,  and  the  next  with  the  shrieks 
of  the  possessed  threw  themselves  straight  into 
the  face  of  death,  under  a  shower  of  bullets  from 
troops  ten  times  as  numerous  as  themselves. 

The  goddesses,  taken  prisoners,  are  the  property, 
the  curious  bibelot,  if  one  may  use  the  word,  of 
the  seven  Allies.  They  are  not  badly  treated. 
They  are  merely  shut  up  for  fear  they  will  commit 
suicide,  which  has  become  a  fixed  idea  with  them. 
What  will  be  their  fate?  Already  their  captors 
are  tired  of  seeing  them  and  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  them. 

On  a  day  of  defeat  the  junk  in  which  they 
sought  refuge  was  surrounded,  and  they,  with 
their  mother,  who  followed  them  everywhere, 
threw  themselves  into  the  water.  The  soldiers 
fished  them  out  fainting.  The  goddesses  after 
much  care  came  to  their  senses.  But  the  mamma 
never  again  opened  her  oblique  old  Chinese  eyes. 
The  girls  were  made  to  believe  that  she  had  been 
taken  to  a  hospital  and  would  soon  come  back. 
At  first  the  prisoners  were  brave,  animated, 
haughty,  and  always  well  dressed.  But  this  very 
morning  they  have  been  told  that  their  mother  is 
no  more,  and  it  is  that  which  has  stunned  them, 
like  a  physical  blow. 


ON   THE   WAY  TO   PEKIN       33 

Having  no  money  to  buy  mourning  dress,  which 
in  China  is  always  white,  they  asked  to  be  allowed 
white  leather  shoes  —  which  at  this  moment  cover 
their  doll-like  feet,  and  which  are  as  essential  here 
as  the  crape  veil  is  with  us. 

They  are  both  slender  and  of  a  waxen  pallor, 
scarcely  pretty,  but  with  a  certain  grace,  a  certain 
charm  as  they  stand  there,  one  in  front  of  the 
other,  without  tears,  with  drooping  eyes  and  with 
arms  falling  straight  at  their  sides.  They  do  not 
raise  their  eyes  even  to  ascertain  who  enters  or 
what  is  wanted  of  them.  They  do  not  stir  as  we 
come  in,  nothing  matters  to  them  now.  They 
await  death,  indifferent  to  everything. 

They  inspire  in  us  an  unlooked-for  respect  by 
the  dignity  of  their  despair,  respect  and  infinite 
compassion.  We  have  nothing  to  say  to  one  an- 
other, and  are  as  embarrassed  at  being  there  as 
though  we  had  been  guilty  of  some  indiscretion. 

It  occurred  to  us  to  put  some  money  on  the 
disordered  bed;  but  one  of  the  sisters,  while  ap- 
pearing not  to  see  us,  threw  the  pieces  of  silver 
onto  the  floor  and  with  a  gesture  invited  the  ser- 
vant to  dispose  of  them  as  she  wished.  So  that 
this  was  on  our  part  a  further  mistake. 

There  is  such  an  abyss  of  misunderstanding 
between  European  officers  and  Boxer  goddesses 
that  it  is  impossible  to  show  our  sympathy  for 

3 


34     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

them  in  any  way.  So  we,  who  came  to  be  amused 
by  a  curious  sight,  depart  in  silence  with  a  tight- 
ening of  the  heartstrings  at  the  thought  of  the 
two  poor  creatures  imprisoned  in  a  gloomy  room 
in  the  fading  evening  light. 

My  junk,  with  five  Chinese  aboard,  will  go  up 
the  river  under  the  French  flag,  which  is  already 
a  protection.  The  war  department  has  decided  it 
to  be  more  prudent  —  although  my  servant  and 
I  are  armed  —  to  send  two  soldiers  with  us,  two 
men  with  horses  carrying  guns  and  munitions. 

Beyond  Tien-Tsin,  where  I  have  spent  another 
day,  one  may  go  an  hour  further  by  train  in  the 
direction  of  Pekin,  as  far  as  the  town  of  Yang- 
Soon.  My  junk,  with  two  soldiers,  Toum,  and 
the  baggage,  will  await  me  there  at  a  bend  in  the 
river,  and  has  gone  on  ahead  to-day  with  a 
military  escort. 

I  dine  this  evening  with  the  consul-general,  the 
one  who  escaped  being  shot  almost  by  miracle, 
although  his  flag  was  for  a  long  time,  during  the 
siege,  a  mark  for  the  Chinese  gunners. 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       35 

III 

MONDAY,  October  15. 

I  LEFT  Tien-Tsin  by  railway  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  An  hour  on  the  road,  across  the 
same  old  plain,  the  same  desolation,  the  same 
cutting  wind,  the  same  dust.  Then  the  ruins  of 
Yang-Soon,  where  the  train  stops  because  there 
is  no  road  left;  from  this  point  on,  the  Boxers 
have  destroyed  everything,  the  bridges  are  cut, 
the  stations  burned,  and  the  rails  scattered  over 
the  country. 

My  junk  is  there  awaiting  me  by  the  river's 
side.  For  the  present,  for  three  days  at  least, 
I  must  arrange  for  a  life  on  the  water,  in  the  little 
sarcophagus  which  is  the  cabin  of  this  queer  boat, 
under  the  roof  of  matting  which  gives  a  view  of 
the  sky  through  a  thousand  holes,  and  which  to- 
night will  permit  the  white  frost  to  disturb  our 
slumbers.  But  this  room  in  which  I  am  to  live, 
eat  and  sleep  in  complete  promiscuity  with  my 
French  companions  is  so  small,  so  very  small  that 
I  dismiss  one  of  the  soldiers.  We  could  never 
manage  there  with  four. 

The  Chinese  of  my  train,  ragged  and  sordid, 
receive  me  with  profound  bows.  One  takes  the 
rudder,  the  others  jump  onto  the  bank,  where  they 
harness  themselves  to  the  end  of  a  long  line  at- 


36     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

tached  to  the  mast  of  the  junk  —  and  we  are  off, 
being  towed  against  the  current  of  the  Pei-Ho,  a 
heavy  poisonous  stream  in  which,  here  and  there 
amongst  the  reeds  on  the  banks,  parts  of  human 
bodies  appear. 

The  soldier  I  have  kept  is  named  Renaud,  and 
he  tells  me  he  comes  from  Calvados.  He  and  my 
servant  Osman,  both  happy  to  be  going  to  Pekin, 
vie  with  one  another  in  gaiety  and  good-will  and 
in  comical  ingenious  inventions  to  make  our  lodg- 
ing more  convenient.  The  trip,  in  spite  of 
unpleasant  surroundings,  begins  to  the  sound  of 
their  merry  childlike  laughter.  We  depart  in  the 
full  morning -light,  under  the  rays  of  a  deceptive 
sunshine  which  pretends  it  is  summer  although 
an  icy  wind  is  blowing. 

The  seven  allied  nations  have  established  mili- 
tary posts  from  point  to  point  along  the  Pei-Ho, 
to  insure  communication  by  way  of  the  river 
between  Pekin  and  the  gulf  of  Petchili,  where 
their  ships  come  in.  Toward  eleven  o'clock  I  stop 
the  junk  near  a  large  Chinese  fort  from  which 
floats  the  French  flag. 

It  is  one  of  our  posts  occupied  by  Zouaves ;  we 
get  out  to  get  our  rations,  enough  bread,  wine, 
preserves,  sugar,  and  tea  for  two  days.  We  shall 
receive  no  more  now  until  Tong-Tchow  (City  of 
Celestial  Purity),  which  we  shall  reach  day  after 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       37 

to-morrow  in  the  evening,  if  nothing  untoward 
prevents.  Then  the  towing  of  our  junk  begins 
again;  slowly  and  monotonously  we  move  be- 
tween gloomy  devastated  banks. 

The  country  around  us  remains  unchanged. 
On  both  sides  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  are 
fields  of  "  sorghos  "  —  which  is  a  kind  of  giant 
millet  much  taller  than  our  maize.  The  war  pre- 
vented its  being  harvested  in  season,  and  so  it 
stands  reddened  by  the  frost.  The  monotonous 
little  tow-path,  a  narrow  strip  on  the  grayish  soil, 
is  on  a  level  with  the  cold  fetid  water,  at  the  foot 
of  the  eternal  dried  sorghos,  which  forms  an  end- 
less curtain  all  along  the  river.  Sometimes  a 
phantom  village  appears  on  the  horizon;  as  one 
approaches  it,  it  proves  to  be  only  ruins  and  the 
bodies  of  the  dead. 

I  have  a  mandarin's  arm-chair  in  my  junk  on 
which  to  enthrone  myself  when  the  sun  shines  and 
the  wind  is  not  too  cutting.  More  frequently  I 
prefer  to  walk  along  the  shore  doing  my  miles  in 
company  with  our  towers,  who  plod  along  bending 
over  like  beasts  of  burden,  with  the  rope  passed 
over  the  shoulders.  Osman  and  Renaud  peer  out 
of  a  port-hole  after  me  as  we  walk  along  the 
track  of  gray  earth  shut  in  by  the  uninterrupted 
border  of  sorghos  and  by  the  river,  the  wind  blow- 
ing sharply  all  the  while.  We  are  often  obliged  to 


38     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

step  aside  suddenly  because  of  a  dead  man  —  with 
one  leg  stretched  out  across  the  path  —  looking 
slyly  up  at  us. 

The  events  of  the  day  are  the  meeting  of  junks 
going  down  the  river  and  passing  ours.  They  go 
in  long  lines  fastened  together,  flying  the  flag  of 
some  one  of  the  allied  nations,  and  carrying  the 
sick,  the  wounded,  and  the  spoils  of  war. 

In  the  twilight  we  pass  the  remains  of  a  village 
in  which  the  Russians,  on  their  way  to  Manchuria, 
are  encamped  for  the  night.  They  are  taking 
carved  furniture  out  of  an  abandoned  house, 
breaking  it  up  and  making  a  fire  of  it.  As  we  go 
on  we  see  the  flames  mounting  in  great  jets,  and 
reaching  out  to  the  sorghos  near  by;  for  a  long 
time  its  incendiary  light  is  visible  behind  us,  in  the 
mournful  empty  grayness  of  the  distance.  This 
first  nightfall  on  our  junk  is  full  of  gloom  in  the 
strange  solitude  into  which  hour  by  hour  we  pene- 
trate still  further.  The  shadows  are  cfeep  about 
us  and  there  are  many  dead  along  the  ground.  In 
the  confused  and  infinite  darkness,  all  about  us 
seems  hostile  or  gloomy,  and  the  cold  increases 
with  the  silence  and  obscurity. 

The  impression  of  melancholy  disappears  at 
supper  when  our  Chinese  lantern  is  lighted,  illumi- 
nating the  sarcophagus,  which  we  have  closed  as 
tightly  as  possible  to  shut  out  the  wind.  I  have 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       39 

invited  my  two  companions  to  my  table  —  my 
comical  little  table,  which  they  themselves  have 
made  from  a  broken  oar  and  an  old  plank.  The 
bread  seems  exquisite  to  us  after  our  long  walk 
on  the  bank;  to  warm  us  we  have  the  hot  tea 
which  young  Toum  has  prepared  for  us  over  a 
fire  of  sorghos,  and  when  hunger  is  assuaged  and 
Turkish  cigarettes  give  forth  their  soothing  clouds 
of  smoke,  we  have  almost  a  feeling  of  home  and 
comfort  in  our  poor  shelter  enveloped  in  outside 
darkness. 

Then  comes  bedtime — although  the  junk  moves 
on,  our  towers  continuing  their  march  by  feeling 
their  way  along  the  sorghos  of  the  dark  path,  so 
full  of  surprises.  Toum,  although  he  is  an  elegant 
young  Chinaman,  goes  to  roost  with  the  others 
of  his  race  in  the  straw  in  the  hold.  The  rest  of  us, 
still  dressed  of  course,  with  our  boots  on  and  fire- 
arms at  hand,  stretch  out  on  the  narrow  camp-bed 
of  our  cabin,  looking  at  the  stars,  which,  as  soon 
as  the  lantern  is  out,  appear  between  the  meshes 
of  our  matting-roof,  shining  brightly  in  the  frosty 
sky. 

Distant  shots  reach  us  from  far  off,  indicating 
nocturnal  dramas  with  which  we  have  no  concern, 
and  just  before  midnight  two  guards,  one  Jap- 
anese and  the  other  German,  try  to  stop  our  junk ; 
we  are  obliged  to  get  up  to  discuss  the  matter,  and 


4o     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

by  means  of  a  hastily  lighted  lantern,  show  the 
French  flag  and  the  stripes  that  I  wear  on  my 
sleeve. 

At  midnight  the  Chinese  make  fast  our  boat,  at 
a  spot  they  say  is  safe,  so  that  they  too  may  rest. 
We  all  fall  into  a  profound  slumber  in  the  icy 
night. 

IV 

TUESDAY,  October  16. 

WE  are  up  at  daylight  and  off  again.  In  the  cold, 
magnificent  dawn,  upon  a  clear  pink  sky,  the  sun 
rises  and  shines  without  heat  on  the  green  plain, 
and  on  the  deserted  place  where  we  have  slept. 

All  at  once  I  leap  to  the  ground  with  an  instinc- 
tive longing  for  activity,  anxious  to  move,  to  walk. 
Horrors!  At  a  turn  in  the  path  as  I  am  running 
fast  without  looking  where  I  am  going,  I  almost 
step  on  something  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  —  a 
naked  corpse  lying  face  downward  with  extended 
arms,  half  buried  in  the  mud  and  of  a  correspond- 
ing color ;  the  dogs  or  the  crows,  or  some  Chinese 
who  wanted  the  queue,  have  taken  the  scalp, 
leaving  the  cranium  white  and  minus  hair  or  skin. 

It  grows  colder  each  day  as  we  get  farther  away 
from  the  sea,  and  the  plain  begins  gradually  to 
slope  upward. 

Junks  pass  as  they  did  yesterday,  going  down 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN      41 

the  river  in  files  with  military  stores,  and  are  under 
the  care  of  soldiers  of  all  the  nations  of  Europe. 
Then  come  long  intervals  of  solitude,  during  which 
no  living  thing  appears  in  this  region  of  millet  and 
reeds.  The  wind  that  blows  more  and  more  bit- 
terly is  healthful;  it  dilates  the  chest,  and  for  the 
moment  redoubles  life.  So  we  march  along  be- 
tween the  sorghos  and  the  river,  on  the  everlasting 
frosty  path  that  leads  to  Pekin,  without  fatigue, 
without  any  desire  to  hurry,  but  always  ahead  of 
the  solemn  Chinamen,  who,  tugging  at  their  ropes, 
continue  to  draw  our  floating  house,  keeping  up 
their  pace  with  the  regularity  of  machines. 

There  are  a  few  trees  now  on  the  banks,  willows 
with  very  green  leaves  of  a  variety  unknown  to  us ; 
they  seem  untouched  by  the  autumn,  and  their 
beautiful  color  is  in  striking  contrast  to  the  rusty 
tones  of  the  grass  and  the  dying  sorghos.  There 
are  gardens  too,  —  abandoned  gardens  that  be- 
longed to  hamlets  that  have  been  burned;  our 
Chinamen  sometimes  send  one  of  their  number  on 
a  marauding  expedition,  and  he  brings  back  arm- 
fuls  of  vegetables  for  our  meals. 

Osman  and  Renaud,  as  we  pass  by  ruined 
houses,  sometimes  pick  up  articles  which  they 
think  necessary  for  the  embellishment  of  our 
dwelling,  —  small  mirrors,  carved  seats,  lanterns, 
even  bunches  of  artificial  flowers  made  of  rice 


42     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

paper,  which  may  have  adorned  the  headdresses 
of  massacred  or  fleeing  Chinese  ladies,  and  which 
they  naively  use  to  decorate  the  walls  of  the  room. 
The  interior  of  our  sarcophagus  soon  takes  on  an 
air  of  distinction  quite  droll  and  barbaric. 

It  is  astonishing  how  soon  we  accustom  our- 
selves to  the  perfectly  simple  life  on  the  junk,  an 
existence  of  healthy  fatigue,  devouring  appetites, 
and  heavy  sleep. 

Toward  the  evening  of  this  day  the  mountains 
of  Mongolia,  those  which  tower  above  Pekin, 
begin  to  appear  on  the  distant  horizon,  on  the  very 
border  of  this  infinitely  level  land. 

There  is  something  especially  lugubrious  about 
the  twilight  to-day.  The  sinuous  Pei-Ho,  narrow- 
ing hour  by  hour  at  each  turn,  seems  to  be  but  a 
tiny  stream  between  its  silent  shores,  and  we  feel 
altogether  too  much  shut  in  by  the  confused 
growth  which  conceals  such  sombre  things.  The 
day  goes  out  in  one  of  those  cold  dead  colorings 
that  are  a  specialty  of  Northern  winters.  All  that 
there  is  in  the  way  of  light  comes  from  the  water, 
which  reflects  more  vividly  than  the  sky;  the 
river,  like  a  mirror,  reflects  the  sunset  yellows ;  one 
might  even  say  that  it  exaggerates  the  sad  light,  as 
it  runs  between  the  inverted  images  of  the  reeds, 
the  monotonous  sorghos  and  the  already  black 
silhouettes  of  the  few  trees.  The  solitude  is  deeper 


ON   THE   WAY  TO   PEKIN      43 

than  that  of  yesterday.  The  cold  and  the  silence 
settle  down  upon  one  like  a  winding  sheet.  There 
is  a  penetrating  melancholy  in  feeling  the  slow 
oncoming  of  the  night  in  this  nameless  spot,  a 
certain  anguish  in  looking  at  the  last  reflections  of 
the  neighboring  reeds,  —  reflections  which  con- 
tinue, even  though  ahead  of  us  darkness  claims  the 
hostile  and  unknown  distance. 

Happily,  the  hour  for  supper  is  here,  the  longed- 
for  hour,  for  we  are  very  hungry.  In  our  little 
retreat  I  shall  find  again  the  red  light  of  our  lan- 
tern, the  excellent  soldier's  bread,  the  smoking  tea 
served  by  Toum,  and  the  cheerfulness  of  my  two 
good  servants. 

Toward  nine  o'clock,  just  as  we  pass  a  group 
of  junks  full  of  people,  all  Chinese,  —  marauders' 
junks  evidently,  —  we  hear  cries  behind  us,  — 
cries  of  distress  and  death,  cries  that  are  horrible 
in  the  stillness.  Toum,  who  lends  his  fine  ear  and 
understands  all  that  these  people  are  saying,  ex- 
plains that  they  are  engaged  in  killing  an  old  man 
because  he  has  stolen  some  rice.  We  were  not 
numerous  enough  or  sure  enough  of  our  party,  to 
interfere.  I  fired  two  shots  into  the  air  in  their 
direction,  and  all  became  still  as  if  by  magic;  we 
had,  no  doubt,  saved  the  head  of  the  old  rice  thief 
at  least  until  the  morning. 

Then  it  is  quiet  until  daylight.    After  midnight, 


44     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

tied  up  no  matter  where  among  the  reeds,  we  all 
sleep  a  sleep  that  is  undisturbed.  It  is  calm  and 
cold  under  the  stars.  There  are  a  few  shots  fired 
in  the  distance.  We  are  conscious  of  them,  but 
they  do  not  wake  us. 

WEDNESDAY,  October  17. 

We  rise  at  daybreak  and  run  along  the  bank  in 
the  white  frost;  the  dawn  is  pink,  and  soon  the 
sun  rises  bright  and  clear. 

Wishing  to  take  a  short  cut  through  the  ever- 
lasting sorghos  fields  and  to  rejoin  the  junk  which 
is  obliged  to  follow  a  long  turn  in  the  river  further 
on,  we  cross  the  ruins  of  a  hamlet  where  fright- 
fully contorted  bodies  are  lying,  on  whose  black- 
ened members  the  ice  has  formed  little  crystals 
that  shine  like  a  coating  of  salt. 

After  our  noon  dinner,  as  we  emerge  from  the 
semi-obscurity  of  our  sarcophagus,  the  Chinamen 
point  to  the  horizon.  Tong-Tchow,  the  "  City 
of  Celestial  Purity,"  is  beginning  to  show  itself; 
great  black  walls  surmounted  with  miradors,  and 
an  astonishingly  tall,  slender  tower,  of  a  very 
Chinese  outline  with  twenty  superimposed  roofs, 

It  is  all  distant  still,  and  the  plains  about  us  are 
full  of  horrors.  From  a  stranded  junk  emerges  a 
long  dead  arm,  of  a  bluish  tone.  And  the  bodies 
of  cattle  borne  by  the  current  pass  by  us  in  a  per- 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       45 

feet  procession,  all  swollen  and  exhaling  a  bovine 
pest.  A  cemetery  must  have  been  violated  here- 
abouts, for  on  the  mud  of  the  shore  there  are 
empty  coffins  with  human  bones  alongside  them. 


V 

AT   TONG-TCHOW 

TONG-TCHOW,  which  occupies  two  or  three  kilo- 
metres along  the  bank,  is  one  of  those  immense 
Chinese  cities — more  densely  populated  than  many 
of  the  capitals  of  Europe  —  whose  very  name  is 
almost  unheard  of  with  us.  To-day,  needless  to 
say,  it  is  but  the  ghost  of  a  city,  and  as  one  ap- 
proaches it  it  does  not  take  long  to  perceive  that  it 
is  now  empty  and  in  ruin. 

We  approach  slowly.  At  the  foot  of  the  high 
black  crenellated  walls,  junks  are  crowded  all  along 
the  river.  On  the  bank  the  same  excitement  as  at 
Taku  and  at  Tien-Tsin  is  complicated  by  some 
hundreds  of  Mongolian  camels  crouching  in  the 
dust. 

There  are  soldiers,  invaders,  cannons,  materials 
of  war.  Cossacks  who  are  trying  captured  horses 
go  and  come  at  full  gallop  among  the  various 
groups,  with  great  savage  cries. 

The  various  national  colors  of  the  European 


46     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

Allies  are  hoisted  in  profusion;  they  float  from 
high  up  on  the  black  walls  pierced  by  cannon  balls, 
from  the  camps,  from  the  junks,  from  the  ruins. 
And  the  continual  wind  —  the  implacable  icy  wind 
carrying  the  infected  dust  that  smells  of  the  dead 
—  plays  upon  these  flags,  which  give  an  ironical 
air  of  festivity  to  all  the  devastation. 

I  look  for  the  French  flags  so  as  to  stop  my 
junk  in  our  neighborhood  and  to  go  at  once  to 
our  quarters.  I  can  try  our  country's  rations  there 
this  evening;  furthermore,  not  being  able  to  con- 
tinue our  trip  on  the  river,  I  must  procure  for  to- 
morrow morning  a  cart  and  some  saddle  horses. 

Stopping  near  a  place  which  seems  to  belong  to 
us,  I  ask  some  Zouaves  the  road  to  our  quarters; 
they  promptly,  eagerly,  and  politely  offer  to  accom- 
pany me.  Together  we  go  on  toward  a  great  door 
in  the  thick  black  wall. 

At  this  entrance  to  the  city  they  have,  by  means 
of  ropes  and  boards,  established  a  cattle-yard  for 
the  purpose  of  supplying  food  for  the  soldiers. 
Besides  a  few  live  animals  there  are  three  or  four 
on  the  ground,  dead  from  the  bovine  pest,  and 
some  Chinese  prisoners  have  this  moment  come 
to  drag  them  to  the  river,  the  general  rendezvous 
for  dead  bodies. 

We  enter  a  street  where  our  soldiers  are  em- 
ployed at  various  kinds  of  work  in  the  midst  of 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       47 

heaps  of  rubbish.  Through  the  broken  doors  and 
windows  of  the  houses  the  wretched  interiors  are 
visible;  everything  is  in  fragments,  broken,  de- 
stroyed as  though  for  pleasure.  From  the  thick 
dust  raised  by  the  north  wind  and  by  our  own 
footsteps  rises  an  intolerable  odor  of  the  dead. 

For  two  months  the  rage  for  destruction,  the 
frenzy  for  murder,  has  beset  this  unfortunate 
"  City  of  Celestial  Purity,"  invaded  by  the  troops 
of  eight  or  ten  different  countries.  She  felt  the 
first  shock  of  all  these  hereditary  hatreds.  First 
the  Boxers  came  her  way.  Then  the  Japanese, 
—  heroic  little  soldiers  of  whom  I  do  not  wish  to 
speak  ill,  but  who  destroy  and  kill  as  barbarian 
armies  were  wont  to  do.  Still  less  do  I  wish  to 
speak  ill  of  our  friends,  the  Russians;  but  they 
have  sent  here  their  Cossack  neighbors  from  Tar- 
tary,  and  half-Mongolian  Siberians,  all  admirable 
under  fire,  but  looking  at  war  in  the  Asiatic 
fashion.  Then  there  are  the  cruel  cavalrymen  of 
India  sent  by  Great  Britain.  America  has  let 
loose  her  soldiers.  And  when,  in  the  first  desire 
for  vengeance  for  Chinese  cruelties,  the  Italians, 
the  Germans,  the  Austrians,  and  the  French  ar- 
rived, nothing  was  left  intact. 

Our  commander  and  his  officers  have  impro- 
vised lodgings  and  offices  in  some  of  the  larger 
Chinese  houses,  hastily  repairing  the  roofs  and 


48     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

walls.  In  strong  contrast  to  the  rudeness  of  these 
places  are  the  sumptuous  wood  carvings  and  the 
tall  Chinese  vases  found  intact  among  the  ruins. 

They  promise  me  carriages  and  horses  for  to- 
morrow morning  to  be  ready  at  sunrise  on  the 
bank  near  my  junk.  When  all  is  settled  there  is 
about  an  hour  of  daylight  left,  so  I  wander  about 
the  ruins  of  the  city  with  my  armed  followers, 
Osman,  Renaud,  and  Chinese  Toum. 

As  one  gets  farther  away  from  the  quarters 
where  our  soldiers  are,  the  horrors  increase  with 
the  solitude  and  the  silence. 

We  come  first  to  the  street  of  the  China  mer- 
chants, great  warehouses  where  the  products  of 
the  Canton  manufactories  were  stored.  It  must 
have  been  a  fine  street  judging  from  the  carved 
and  gilded  but  ruined  fagades  which  remain. 
To-day  the  yawning  shops,  almost  demolished, 
seem  to  vomit  onto  the  highway  their  heaps  of 
broken  fragments.  One  walks  on  precious  enamel 
decorated  with  brilliant  flowers,  for  it  literally 
covers  the  ground  so  that  one  crushes  it  in  pass- 
ing. There  is  no  knowing  whose  work  this  was; 
it  was  already  done  when  our  troops  arrived.  But 
it  must  have  taken  whole  days  of  furious  attack 
with  boots  and  clubs  to  reduce  it  all  to  such  small 
bits;  jars,  plates,  cups,  are  ground  to  atoms,  pul- 
verized, together  with  human  bones  and  hair.  At 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       49 

the  back  of  these  warehouses  the  coarser  wares 
occupied  a  sort  of  interior  court.  These  courts 
with  their  old  walls  are  particularly  lugubrious 
this  evening,  in  the  dying  light.  In  one  of  them 
we  found  a  mangy  dog  trying  to  drag  something 
from  underneath  a  pile  of  broken  plates  —  it  was 
the  body  of  a  child  whose  skull  had  been  broken. 
The  dog  began  to  eat  the  flesh  that  was  left  on  the 
legs  of  the  poor  dead  thing. 

There  was  no  one  to  be  seen  in  the  long  dev- 
astated streets  where  the  framework  of  the  houses, 
as  well  as  the  tiles  and  the  bricks,  had  tumbled 
down.  Crows  croaked  in  the  silence.  Horrible 
dogs  who  feed  on  the  dead  fled  before  us,  hanging 
their  tails.  We  had  glimpses  of  Chinese  prowlers, 
wretched-looking  creatures,  trying  to  find  some- 
thing to  steal,  or  of  some  of  the  dispossessed 
timidly  creeping  along  the  walls  attempting  to 
find  out  what  has  become  of  their  homes. 

The  sun  is  already  low,  and  the  wind  is  rising 
as  it  does  every  night.  We  shiver  with  the  sudden 
cold.  Empty  houses  fill  the  shadows. 

These  houses  are  all  of  considerable  extent,  with 
recesses,  a  succession  of  courts,  rock  work,  basins, 
and  melancholy  gardens.  Crossing  the  threshold, 
guarded  by  the  ever-present  granite  monsters  worn 
by  the  rubbing  of  hands,  one  finds  oneself  in  an 
endless  series  of  apartments.  The  intimate  details 

4 


50     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

of  Chinese  life  are  touchingly  and  graciously  re- 
vealed by  the  arrangement  of  potted  plants,  flower- 
beds, and  little  balconies  where  bindweed  and  other 
vines  are  trained. 

Here,  surrounded  with  playthings,  is  a  poor 
doll,  which  doubtless  belonged  to  some  child 
whose  head  has  been  broken;  there  a  cage  hangs 
with  the  bird  still  in  it,  dried  up  in  one  corner 
with  its  feet  in  the  air. 

Everything  is  sacked,  removed,  or  destroyed; 
furniture  is  broken,  the  contents  of  drawers 
thrown  about  the  floors,  papers,  blood-stained 
clothing,  Chinese  women's  shoes  spattered  with 
blood,  and  here  and  there  limbs,  hands,  heads, 
and  clumps  of  hair. 

In  certain  of  the  gardens  neglected  plants 
continue  to  blossom  gaily,  running  over  into  the 
walks  amongst  the  human  remains.  Around  an 
arbor  which  conceals  the  body  of  a  woman,  twines 
pink  convolvulus  in  blossoming  garlands.  The 
blossom  is  still  open  at  this  late  hour  of  the  day 
and  in  spite  of  the  cold  nights,  which  quite  upsets 
our  European  ideas  of  convolvulus. 

In  one  of  the  houses  back  in  a  recess  in  a  dark 
loft,  something  moves!  Two  women  cower  piti- 
fully! Finding  themselves  discovered,  they  are 
seized  with  terror  and  fall  at  our  feet,  trembling, 
weeping,  clasping  their  hands,  and  begging  for 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       51 

mercy.  One  is  young,  the  other  older,  and  they 
look  alike.  Mother  and  daughter !  "  Pardon,  sir, 
pardon;  we  are  afraid,"  translates  little  Toum 
naively,  understanding  their  broken  words.  Evi- 
dently they  expect  the  worst  of  us  —  and  then 
death.  For  how  long  have  they  lived  in  this  hole, 
these  two  poor  things,  thinking  with  each  step  that 
resounds  on  the  pavement  of  the  deserted  court  that 
their  end  has  come?  We  leave  them  a  few  pieces 
of  silver,  which  perhaps  humiliates  without  helping 
them,  but  it  is  all  that  we  can  do,  and  then  we  go. 
Another  house,  a  house  of  the  rich  this  one  is, 
with  a  profusion  of  potted  plants  in  enamelled 
porcelain  jars  in  the  sad  little  garden.  In  an 
apartment  that  is  already  dark  (for  decidedly 
night  is  coming  on,  the  uncertainty  of  twilight  is 
beginning),  but  where  the  havoc  is  less  exten- 
sive, for  there  are  great  chests  and  beautiful  arm- 
chairs still  intact,  Osman  suddenly  recoils  with 
terror  before  something  which  emerges  from  a 
bucket  placed  upon  a  board.  Two  torn  thighs, 
the  whole  lower  part  of  a  woman  thrust  into  this 
bucket  with  the  feet  in  the  air!  Undoubtedly  the 
mistress  of  this  elegant  home.  Her  body?  Who 
knows  what  has  been  done  with  the  body?  But 
here  is  the  head,  under  this  arm-chair,  near  the 
skeleton  of  a  cat.  The  mouth  is  open,  showing 
the  teeth,  and  the  hair  is  long. 


52     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

In  addition  to  the  broad,  almost  straight  streets 
whose  desolation  is  visible  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  there  are  little  tortuous  streets  leading  up 
to  gray  walls.  They  are  the  most  desolate  to  enter 
at  this  twilight  hour,  with  only  the  cry  of  the  crow 
as  an  accompaniment.  Little  stone  gnomes  guard 
their  mysterious  doors,  and  their  pavements  are 
strewn  with  human  heads  with  long  queues.  One 
approaches  certain  turns  in  the  streets  with  a  heavy 
heart.  It  is  over,  and  nothing  in  the  world  would 
tempt  us  to  enter  again  at  this  hour  one  of  those 
frightfully  still  houses  where  one  meets  with  so 
many  gruesome  encounters. 

We  had  gone  far  into  the  city  before  night 
came  on,  and  the  silence  had  become  intoler- 
able. We  return  to  the  region  where  the  troops 
are  quartered,  cut  by  the  north  wind  and  chilled 
by  the  cold  and  gloom;  our  return  is  rapid; 
broken  china  and  other  debris  impossible  to  de- 
fine crackle  under  our  feet. 

The  banks  are  lined  with  soldiers  warming 
themselves  and  cooking  their  suppers  over  bright 
fires,  where  they  are  burning  chairs,  tables,  and 
bits  of  carved  wood  or  timbers.  Coming  out  of 
the  Dantesque  streets,  it  all  bespeaks  joy  and  com- 
fort to  us. 

Near  our  junk  there  is  a  canteen,  improvised  by 
a  Maltese,  where  intoxicants  are  sold  to  soldiers. 


ON    THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       53 

I  send  my  men  to  get  whatever  liquors  they  want 
for  our  supper,  for  we  need  something  to  warm 
and  cheer  us  if  possible.  We  celebrate  with  smok- 
ing soup,  tea,  chartreuse,  and  I  don't  know  what 
besides,  in  our  little  matting-covered  dwelling, 
tied  up  this  time  on  the  pestilential  mud  and  en- 
veloped as  usual  by  cold  and  darkness. 

At  dessert,  when  the  hour  for  smoking  arrives 
in  our  sarcophagus,  Renaud,  to  whom  I  have  given 
the  floor,  tells  us  that  his  squadron  is  encamped  on 
the  borders  of  a  Chinese  cemetery  in  Tien-Tsin, 
and  that  the  soldiers  of  another  European  nation. 
(I  prefer  not  to  say  which)  in  the  same  vicinity 
spend  their  time  ransacking  the  graves  and  taking 
from  them  the  money  which  it  is  the  custom  to 
bury  with  the  dead. 

"  To  me,  colonel "  (I  am  colonel  to  him,  as  he 
is  ignorant  of  the  naval  appellation  of  command- 
ant, which,  with  us,  goes  with  five  gold  stripes), 
"  to  me  it  does  not  seem  right.  Even  though  they 
are  Chinese,  we  ought  to  leave  their  dead  in  peace. 
What  disgusts  me  is  that  they  cut  their  rations  up 
on  the  planks  of  the  coffins.  And  I  say  to  them, 
'  Put  it  on  the  outside  if  you  will,  but  not  on  the 
inside,  which  has  touched  the  corpse.'  But  these 
savages,  colonel,  laugh  at  me." 


54     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 


VI 

THURSDAY,  October  18. 

IT  is  a  surprise  to  awaken  to  a  dark  and  sombre 
sky.  We  counted  upon  having,  as  on  the  preceding 
mornings,  the  almost  never  clouded  autumn  and 
winter  sun,  which  in  China  shines  and  warms  even 
when  everything  is  frozen  hard,  and  which  has, 
up  to  this  time,  helped  us  to  support  the  gruesome 
sights  of  our  journey. 

When  we  open  the  door  of  the  junk  just  before 
dawn,  our  horses  and  cart  are  there,  having  just 
arrived.  On  the  forbidding  shore  some  Mon- 
golians with  their  camels  are  crouched  about  a  fire 
which  has  burned  all  night  in  the  dust ;  and  behind 
their  motionless  groups  the  high  walls  of  the  city, 
of  an  inky  blackness,  rise  to  meet  the  low-hanging 
clouds. 

We  leave  our  small  nomadic  equipment  in  the 
junk,  in  the  care  of  two  marines  of  the  Tong- 
Tchow  division,  who  will  look  after  it  until  our 
return,  and  also  our  most  precious  possession,  the 
last  of  the  bottles  of  pure  water  given  us  by  the 
general. 

The  last  stage  of  our  journey  is  made  in  the 
company  of  the  French  consul-general  at  Tien- 
Tsin  and  of  the  chancellor  of  the  legation,  who  are 


ON   THE   WAY ,  TO   PEKIN       55 

both  bound  for  Pekin,  under  the  escort  of  a 
marshal  and  three  or  four  artillerymen. 

Our  long1,  monotonous  route  leads  us  across 
fields  of  sorghos  reddened  by  the  early  frosts,  and 
through  deserted  villages  where  no  one  is  stirring. 
It  is  a  cold,  gray  morning,  and  the  autumn  country, 
upon  which  a  fine  rain  is  falling,  is  in  mourning. 

At  certain  moments  I  almost  fancy  myself  on 
the  roads  of  the  Basque  country  in  November, 
amid  the  uncut  maize.  Then  all  at  once  some 
unknown  symbol  arises  to  recall  China,  —  either 
a  tomb  of  mysterious  shape  or  a  stele  mounted 
upon  enormous  granite  tortoises. 

From  time  to  time  we  meet  military  convoys  of 
one  nation  or  another,  or  lines  of  ambulances.  In 
one  place  some  Russians  have  taken  shelter  from 
a  shower  in  the  ruins  of  a  village;  in  another  a 
number  of  Americans,  who  have  discovered  some 
hidden  clothing  in  an  abandoned  house,  go  on  their 
way  rejoicing,  with  fur  mantles  on  their  backs. 

Then  there  are  tombs,  always  tombs,  from  one 
end  to  the  other;  China  is  strewn  with  them; 
some  are  almost  hidden  by  the  roadside,  others  are 
magnificently  isolated  in  enclosures  which  are  like 
mortuary  thickets  of  dark  green  cedars. 

Ten  o'clock.  We  should  be  approaching  Pekin, 
although  as  yet  nothing  indicates  its  nearness. 
We  have  not  seen  a  single  Chinese  since  our  de- 


56     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

parture;  the  whole  country  is  deserted  and  silent 
under  a  veil  of  almost  imperceptible  rain. 

We  are  going  to  pass  not  far  from  the  tomb  of 
an  empress,  it  seems,  and  the  French  chancellor, 
who  knows  the  neighborhood,  proposes  that  he  and 
I  make  a  detour  to  look  at  it.  So,  leaving  the 
others  to  continue  their  route,  we  take  a  side  path 
through  the  tall,  damp  grass. 

A  canal  and  a  pool  soon  appear,  of  a  pale  color, 
under  the  indefinite  sky.  There  is  no  one  to  be 
seen  anywhere;  the  sad  quiet  of  a  depopulated 
country  prevails.  The  tomb  on  the  opposite  bank 
scarcely  peeps  out  from  its  cedar  wood,  which  is 
walled  about  on  all  sides.  We  see  little  but  the 
first  marble  gates  leading  to  it  and  the  avenue  of 
white  stele  which  is  finally  lost  under  the  myste- 
rious trees.  It  is  all  rather  distant,  and  is  repro- 
duced in  the  mirror  of  the  pool  in  long  inverted 
reflections.  Near  us  the  tall  leaden  stems  of 
some  lotus  killed  by  the  frost  bend  over  the  water, 
where  the  rain  drops  have  traced  faint  rings.  The 
whitish  spheres  seen  here  and  there  are  heads  of 
the  dead. 

When  we  rejoin  our  company  they  promise  that 
we  shall  enter  Pekin  in  half  an  hour.  After  the 
complications  and  delays  of  our  journey  we  almost 
believe  we  shall  never  arrive.  Besides,  it  is  in- 
credible that  so  large  a  city  could  be  so  near  in 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       57 

this  deserted  country,  such  a  little  way  ahead 
of  us. 

"  Pekin  does  not  proclaim  itself,"  explains  my 
new  companion.  "  Pekin  takes  hold  of  you ;  when 
you  perceive  it  you  are  there." 

The  road  passes  through  groups  of  cedars  and 
willows  with  falling  leaves,  and  in  the  concen- 
tration of  our  effort  to  see  the  City  Celestial  we 
trot  on  in  the  fine  rain,  which  does  not  wet  us  at 
all,  so  drying  are  the  northern  winds,  carrying  the 
dust  always  and  everywhere;  we  trot  on  without 
speaking. 

"  Pekin !  "  suddenly  exclaims  one  of  our  com- 
panions, pointing  out  an  obscure  mass  just  rising 
above  the  trees,  —  a  crenellated  dungeon  of  super- 
human proportions. 

Pekin!  In  a  few  seconds,  during  which  I  am 
feeling  the  spell  of  this  name,  a  big  gloomy  wall, 
of  unheard-of  height,  is  disclosed,  and  goes  on 
endlessly  in  the  gray,  empty  solitude,  which  re- 
sembles an  accursed  steppe.  It  is  like  a  complete 
change  of  scene,  performed  without  the  noise  of 
machinery  or  the  sounds  of  an  orchestra,  in  a 
silence  more  impressive  than  any  music.  We  are 
at  the  very  foot  of  the  bastions  and  ramparts, 
dominated  by  them,  although  a  turn  in  the  road 
had  up  to  this  moment  concealed  them.  At  the 
same  time  the  rain  is  turning  to  snow,  whose 


58     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

white  flakes  mingle  with  the  suspended  dirt  and 
dust.  The  wall  of  Pekin  overwhelms  us,  a  giant 
thing  of  Babylonian  aspect,  intensely  black  under 
the  dead  light  of  a  snowy  autumn  morning.  It 
rises  toward  the  sky  like  a  cathedral,  but  it  goes 
on;  it  is  prolonged,  always  the  same,  for  miles. 
Not  a  person  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  not  a 
green  thing  all  along  these  walls!  The  ground 
is  uneven,  dusty,  ashen  in  color,  and  strewn  with 
rags,  bones,  and  even  an  occasional  skull!  From 
the  top  of  each  black  battlement  a  crow  salutes  us 
as  we  pass,  cawing  mournfully. 

The  clouds  are  so  thick  and  low  that  we  do  not 
see  clearly;  we  are  oppressed  by  long-looked-for 
Pekin,  which  has  just  made  its  abrupt  and  discon- 
certing appearance  above  our  heads;  we  advance 
to  the  intermittent  cries  of  the  crows,  rather  silent 
ourselves,  overpowered  at  being  there,  longing  to 
see  some  movement,  some  life,  some  one  or  some 
thing  come  out  from  these  walls. 

From  a  gate  ahead  of  us,  from  a  hole  in  the 
colossal  enclosure,  slowly  emerges  an  enormous 
brown,  woolly  animal  like  a  gigantic  sheep;  then 
two,  then  three,  then  ten.  A  Mongolian  caravan 
begins  to  pass  us,  always  in  the  same  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  croakings  of  the  ravens. 
These  enormous  Mongolian  camels,  with  their 
furry  coats,  muffs  on  their  legs,  and  manes 


ON   THE   WAY  TO   PEKIN       59 

like  lions,  file  in  an  endless  procession  past  our 
frightened  horses.  They  wear  neither  bells  nor 
rattles,  like  the  thin  beasts  of  the  Arabian  deserts ; 
their  feet  sink  deep  into  the  sand,  which  muffles 
their  footsteps  so  the  silence  is  not  broken  by  their 
march. 

Perceived  through  a  veil  of  fine  snow  and  black 
dust,  the  caravan  has  passed  us,  and  moves  on 
without  a  sound,  like  a  phantom  thing.  We  find 
ourselves  alone  again,  under  this  Titanic  wall, 
from  which  the  crows  keep  watch.  And  now  it  is 
our  turn  to  enter  the  gloomy  city  through  the 
gates  by  which  the  Mongolians  have  just  passed 
out. 

VII 

AT   THE   FRENCH    LEGATION 

HERE  we  are  at  the  gates,  the  double  triple  gates, 
deep  as  tunnels,  and  formed  of  the  most  powerful 
masonry,  —  gates  surmounted  by  deadly  dun- 
geons, each  one  five  stories  high,  with  strange 
curved  roofs,  —  extravagant  dungeons,  colossal 
black  things  above  a  black  enclosing  wall. 

Our  horses'  hoofs  sink  deeper  and  deeper,  dis- 
appear, in  fact,  in  the  coal-black  dust,  which  is 
blinding  and  all-pervading,  in  the  atmosphere 
as  well  as  on  the  ground,  in  spite  of  the  light 


60    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

rain  and  the  snowflakes  which  make  our  faces 
tingle. 

Noiselessly,  as  though  we  were  stepping  upon 
wadding  or  felt,  we  pass  under  the  enormous  vaults 
and  enter  the  land  of  ruin  and  ashes. 

A  few  slatternly  beggars  shivering  in  corners 
in  their  blue  rags,  a  few  corpse-eating  dogs,  like 
those  whose  acquaintance  we  have  already  made 
en  route,  —  and  that  is  all.  Silence  and  solitude 
within  as  well  as  without  these  walls.  Nothing 
but  rubbish  and  ruin,  ruin. 

The  land  of  rubbish  and  ashes,  and  little  gray 
bricks,  —  little  bricks  all  alike,  scattered  in  count- 
less myriads  upon  the  sites  of  houses  that  have 
been  destroyed,  or  upon  the  pavement  of  what  once 
were  streets. 

Little  gray  bricks,  —  this  is  the  sole  material  of 
which  Pekin  was  built ;  a  city  of  small,  low  houses 
decorated  with  a  lacework  of  gilded  wood;  a  city 
of  which  only  a  mass  of  curious  debris  is  left, 
after  fire  and  shell  have  crumbled  away  its  flimsy 
materials. 

We  have  come  into  the  city  at  one  of  the  corners 
where  there  was  the  fiercest  fighting,  —  the  Tartar 
quarter,  which  contained  the  European  legations. 

Long  straight  streets  may  still  be  traced  in  this 
infinite  labyrinth  of  ruins;  ahead  of  us  all  is  gray 
or  black;  to  the  sombre  gray  of  the  fallen  brick 


ON    THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       61 

is  added  the  monotonous  tone  which  follows  a 
fire,  —  the  gloom  of  ashes  and  the  gloom  of  coal. 

Sometimes  in  crossing  the  road  they  form  ob- 
stacles, —  these  tiresome  little  bricks ;  these  are 
the  remains  of  barricades  where  fighting  must  have 
taken  place. 

After  a  few  hundred  metres  we  enter  the  street 
of  the  legations,  upon  which  for  so  many  months 
the  anxious  attention  of  the  whole  world  was  fixed. 

Everything  is  in  ruins,  of  course ;  yet  European 
flags  float  on  every  piece  of  wall,  and  we  suddenly 
find,  as  we  come  out  of  the  smaller  streets,  the 
same  animation  as  at  Tien-Tsin,  —  a  continual 
coming  and  going  of  officers  and  soldiers,  and  an 
astonishing  array  of  uniforms. 

A  big  flag  marks  the  entrance  to  what  was  our 
legation,  two  monsters  in  white  marble  crouch  at 
the  threshold;  this  is  the  etiquette  for  all  Chinese 
palaces.  Two  of  our  soldiers  guard  the  door  which 
I  enter,  my  thoughts  recurring  to  the  heroes  who 
defended  it. 

We  finally  dismount,  amid  piles  of  rubbish,  in  an 
inner  square  near  a  chapel,  and  at  the  entrance  to 
a  garden  where  the  trees  are  losing  their  leaves  as 
an  effect  of  the  icy  winds.  The  walls  about  us  are 
so  pierced  with  balls  that  they  look  like  sieves. 
The  pile  of  rubbish  at  our  right  is  the  legation 


62     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

proper,  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  a  Chinese 
mine.  At  our  left  is  the  chancellor's  house,  where 
the  brave  defenders  of  the  place  took  refuge  during 
the  siege,  because  it  was  in  a  less  exposed  situa- 
tion. They  have  offered  to  take  me  in  there;  it 
was  not  destroyed,  but  everything  is  topsy-turvy, 
as  though  it  were  the  day  after  a  battle;  and  in 
the  room  where  I  am  to  sleep  the  plasterers  are  at 
work  repairing  the  walls,  which  will  not  be  finished 
until  this  evening. 

As  a  new  arrival,  I  am  taken  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  garden  where  those  of  our  sailors  who  fell  on 
the  field  of  honor  were  hastily  buried  amid  a 
shower  of  balls.  There  is  no  grass  here,  no  blos- 
soming plants,  only  a  gray  soil  trampled  by  the 
combatants,  —  crumbling  from  dryness  and  cold, 
—  trees  without  leaves  and  with  branches  broken 
by  shot,  and  over  all  a  gloomy,  lowering  sky,  with 
snowflakes  that  are  cutting. 

We  remove  our  hats  as  we  enter  this  garden, 
for  we  know  not  upon  whose  remains  we  may  be 
treading.  The  graves  will  soon  be  marked,  I  doubt 
not,  but -have  not  yet  been,  so  one  is  not  sure  as 
one  walks  of  not  having  under  foot  sorae  one  of 
the  dead  who  merits  a  crown. 

In  this  house  of  the  chancellor,  spared  as  by  a 
miracle,  the  besieged  lived  helter-skelter,  slept  on 
a  floor  space  the  size  of  which  was  day  by  day 


ON   THE   WAY  TO    PEKIN       63 

decreased  by  the  damage  done  by  shot  and  shell, 
and  were  in  imminent  danger  of  death. 

In  the  beginning  —  their  number,  alas,  rapidly 
diminished  —  there  were  sixty  French  sailors  and 
twenty  Austrians,  meeting  death,  side  by  side,  with 
equally  magnificent  courage.  To  them  were  added 
a  few  French  volunteers,  who  took  their  turns  on 
the  barricades  or  on  the  roofs,  and  two  foreigners, 
M.  and  Madame  Rosthorn  of  the  Austrian  lega- 
tion. Our  officers  in  command  of  the  defence 
were  Lieutenant  Darcy  and  midshipman  Herber; 
the  latter  was  struck  full  in  the  face  by  a  ball,  and 
sleeps  to-day  in  the  garden. 

The  horrible  part  of  this  siege  was  that  no  pity 
was  to  be  expected  from  the  besiegers,  if,  starved, 
and  at  the  end  of  their  strength,  it  became  neces- 
sary for  the  besieged  to  surrender,  it  was  death, 
and  death  with  atrocious  Chinese  refinements  to 
prolong  the  paroxysms  of  suffering. 

Neither  was  there  the  hope  of  escape  by  some 
supreme  sortie;  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a 
swarming  city,  they  were  enclosed  in  a  labyrinth 
of  buildings  that  sheltered  a  crowd  of  enemies, 
and  were  still  further  imprisoned  by  the  feeling 
that,  surrounding  them,  walling  in  the  whole,  was 
the  colossal  black  rampart  of  Pekin. 

It  was  during  the  torrid  period  of  the  Chinese 
summer;  it  was  often  necessary  to  fight  while 


64    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

dying  of  thirst,  blinded  by  dust,  under  a  sun  as 
destructive  as  the  balls,  and  with  the  constant 
sickening  fear  of  infection  from  dead  bodies. 

Yet  a  charming  young  woman  was  there  with 
them,  —  an  Austrian,  to  whom  should  be  given 
one  of  our  most  beautiful  French  crosses.  Alone 
amongst  men  in  distress,  she  kept  an  even  cheerful- 
ness of  the  best  kind,  she  cared  for  the  wounded, 
prepared  food  for  the  sick  sailors  with  her  own 
hands,  and  then  went  off  to  aid  in  carrying  bricks 
and  sand  for  the  barricades  or  to  take  her  turn  as 
watch  on  the  roof. 

Day  by  day  the  circle  closed  in  upon  the  be- 
sieged as  their  ranks  grew  thinner  and  the  garden 
filled  with  the  dead;  gradually  they  lost  ground, 
although  disputing  with  the  enemy,  who  were 
legion,  every  piece  of  wall,  every  pile  of  bricks. 

And  when  one  sees  their  little  barricades  hastily 
erected  during  the  night  out  of  nothing  at  all,  and 
knows  that  five  or  six  sailors  succeeded  in  defend- 
ing them  (for  five  or  six  toward  the  end  were  all 
that  could  be  spared),  it  really  seems  as  though 
there  were  something  supernatural  about  it  all. 
As  I  walked  through  the  garden  with  one  of  its 
defenders,  and  he  said  to  me,  "  At  the  foot  of 
that  little  wall  we  held  out  for  so  many  days," 
and  "  In  front  of  this  little  barricade  we  re- 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       65 

sisted  for  a  week,"  it  seemed  a  marvellous  tale  of 
heroism. 

And  their  last  intrenchment !  It  was  alongside 
the  house,  —  a  ditch  dug  tentatively  in  a  single 
night,  banked  up  with  a  few  poor  sacks  of  earth 
and  sand ;  it  was  all  they  had  to  keep  out  the  exe- 
cutioners, who,  scarcely  six  metres  away,  were 
threatening  them  with  death  from  the  top  of  a 
wall. 

Beyond  is  the  "  cemetery,"  that  is,  the  corner 
of  the  garden  in  which  they  buried  their  dead,  until 
the  still  more  terrible  days  when  they  had  to  put 
them  here  and  there,  concealing  the  place  for  fear 
the  graves  would  be  violated,  in  accordance  with 
the  terrible  custom  of  this  place.  It  was  a  poor 
little  cemetery  whose  soil  had  been  pressed  and 
trampled  upon  in  close  combat,  whose  trees  were 
shattered  and  broken  by  shell.  The  interments 
took  place  under  Chinese  fire,  and  an  old  white- 
headed  priest  —  since  a  martyr,  whose  head  was 
dragged  in  the  gutter  —  said  prayers  at  the  grave, 
in  spite  of  the  balls  that  whistled  about  him,  cutting 
and  breaking  the  branches. 

Toward  the  end  their  cemetery  was  the  "  con- 
tested region,"  after  they  had  little  by  little  lost 
much  ground,  and  they  trembled  for  their  dead; 
the  enemy  had  advanced  to  its  very  border;  they 
watched  and  they  killed  at  close  quarters  over  the 

5 


66     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

sleeping  warriors  so  hastily  put  to  rest.  If  the 
Chinese  had  reached  this  cemetery,  and  had  scaled 
the  last  frail  trenches  of  sand  and  gravel  in  sacks 
made  of  old  curtains,  then  for  all  who  were  left 
there  would  have  been  horrible  torture  to  the  sound 
of  music  and  laughter,  horrible  dismemberment, 
—  nails  torn  out,  feet  torn  off,  disembowelling, 
and  finally  the  head  carried  through  the  streets  at 
the  end  of  a  pole. 

They  were  attacked  from  all  sides  and  in  every 
possible  manner,  often  at  the  most  unexpected 
hours  of  the  night.  It  usually  began  with  cries  and 
the  sudden  noise  of  trumpets  and  tam-tams ;  around 
them  thousands  of  howling  men  would  appear,  — 
one  must  have  heard  the  howlings  of  the  Chinese 
to  imagine  what  their  voices  are ;  their  very  timbre 
chills  your  soul.  Gongs  outside  the  walls  added  to 
the  tumult. 

Occasionally,  from  a  suddenly  opened  hole  in  a 
neighboring  house,  a  pole  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
long,  ablaze  at  the  end  with  oakum  and  petroleum, 
emerged  slowly  and  silently,  like  a  thing  out  of 
a  dream.  This  was  applied  to  the  roofs  in  the 
hope  of  setting  them  on  fire. 

They  were  also  attacked  from  below,  they  heard 
dull  sounds  in  the  earth,  and  understood  that  they 
were  being  undermined,  that  their  executioners 
might  spring  up  from  the  ground  at  any  moment ; 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       67 

so  that  it  became  necessary,  at  any  cost,  to  attempt 
to  establish  countermines  to  prevent  this  subterra- 
nean peril.  One  day,  toward  noon,  two  terrible  de- 
tonations, which  brought  on  a  regular  tornado  of 
plaster  and  dust,  shook  the  French  legation,  half 
burying  under  rubbish  the  lieutenant  in  command 
of  the  defences  and  several  of  his  marines.  But 
this  was  not  all;  all  but  two  succeeded  in  getting 
clear  of  the  stones  and  ashes  that  covered  them  to 
the  shoulders,  but  two  brave  sailors  never  appeared 
again.  And  so  the  struggle  continued,  desperately, 
and  under  conditions  more  and  more  frightful. 

And  still  the  gentle  stranger  remained,  when  she 
might  so  easily  have  taken  shelter  elsewhere,  — 
at  the  English  legation,  for  instance,  where  most 
of  the  ministers  with  their  families  had  found 
refuge ;  the  balls  did  not  penetrate  to  them ;  they 
were  at  the  centre  of  the  quarter  defended  by  a 
few  handfuls  of  brave  soldiers,  and  could  there  feel 
a  certain  security  so  long  as  the  barricades  held 
out.  But  no,  she  remained  and  continued  in  her 
admirable  role  at  that  blazing  point,  the  French 
legation,  —  a  point  which  was  the  key,  the  corner- 
stone of  the  European  quadrangle,  whose  capture 
would  bring  about  general  disaster. 

One  time  they  saw  with  their  field  glasses  the 
posting  of  an  imperial  edict  commanding  that  the 


68     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

fire  against  foreigners  cease.  (What  they  did  not 
see  was  that  the  men  who  put  up  the  notices  were 
attacked  by  the  crowd  with  knives.)  Yet  a  certain 
lull,  a  sort  of  armistice  did  follow;  the  attacks 
became  less  violent. 

They  saw  that  incendiaries  were  everywhere 
abroad;  they  heard  fusillades,  cannonades,  and 
prolonged  cries  among  the  Chinese;  entire  dis- 
tricts were  in  flames;  they  were  killing  one  an- 
other; their  fury  was  fermenting  as  in  a  pande- 
monium, and  they  were  suffocated,  stifled  with 
the  smell  of  corpses. 

Spies  came  occasionally  with  information  to  sell 
—  always  false  and  contradictory  —  in  regard  to 
the  relief  expedition,  which  amid  ever-increasing 
anxiety  was  hourly  expected.  "  It  is  here,  it  is 
there,  it  is  advancing,"  or  "  It  has  been  defeated 
and  is  retreating,"  were  the  announcements,  yet 
it  persisted  in  not  appearing. 

What,  then,  was  Europe  doing?  Had  they 
been  abandoned?  They  continued,  almost  with- 
out hope,  to  defend  themselves  in  their  restricted 
quarters.  Each  day  they  felt  that  Chinese  tor- 
ture and  death  were  closing  in  upon  them. 

They  began  to  lack  for  the  essentials  of  life. 
It  was  necessary  to  economize  in  everything,  par- 
ticularly in  ammunition;  they  were  growing  sav- 
age, —  when  they  captured  any  Boxers,  instead 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       69 

of  shooting  them  they  broke  their  skulls  with  a 
revolver. 

One  day  their  ears,  sharpened  for  all  outside 
noises,  distinguished  a  continued  deep,  heavy  can- 
nonade beyond  the  great  black  ramparts  whose 
battlements  were  visible  in  the  distance,  and  which 
enclosed  them  in  a  Dantesque  circle;  Pekin  was 
being  bombarded !  It  could  only  be  by  the  armies 
of  Europe  come  to  their  assistance. 

Yet  one  last  fear  troubled  their  joy.  Would  not 
a  supreme  attack  against  them  be  attempted,  an 
effort  be  made  to  destroy  them  before  the  allied 
troops  could  enter? 

As  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  furiously  at- 
tacked, and  this  last  day,  the  day  of  their  deliver- 
ance, cost  the  life  of  one  of  our  officers,  Captain 
Labrousse,  who  went  to  join  the  Austrian  com- 
mander in  the  glorious  little  cemetery  of  the  lega- 
tion. But  they  kept  up  their  resistance,  until  all 
at  once  not  a  Chinese  head  was  visible  on  the  bar- 
ricades of  the  enemy;  all  was  empty  and  silent  in 
the  devastation  about  them;  the  Boxers  were  fly- 
ing and  the  Allies  were  entering  the  city ! 

This  first  night  of  my  arrival  in  Pekin  was  as 
melancholy  as  the  nights  on  the  road,  but  in  a 
more  commonplace  way,  with  more  of  ennui.  The 
workmen  had  just  finished  the  walls  of  my  room; 


70     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

the  fresh  plaster  gave  forth  a  chilling  dampness 
that  penetrated  to  my  very  bones,  and  as  the  room 
was  empty,  my  servant  spread  my  narrow  mat- 
tress from  the  junk  upon  the  floor,  and  began  to 
make  a  table  out  of  some  old  boxes. 

My  hosts  were  good  enough  to  have  a  stove 
hastily  set  up  for  me  and  lighted,  which  called  up 
a  picture  of  European  discomfort  in  some  wretched 
place  in  the  country.  How  could  one  fancy  oneself 
in  China,  in  Pekin  itself,  so  near  to  mysterious  en- 
closures, to  palaces  so  full  of  wonders? 

As  to  the  French  minister,  whom  I  am  anxious 
to  see,  to  convey  to  him  the  admiral's  communica- 
tions, I  learn  that  he,  having  no  roof  to  cover  his 
head,  has  gone  to  seek  shelter  at  the  Spanish  lega- 
tion; and  furthermore,  that  he  has  typhoid  fever, 
which  is  epidemic  on  account  of  the  poisonous 
condition  of  the  water,  so  that  for  the  present  no 
one  can  see  him.  So  my  stay  in  this  damp  place 
threatens  to  be  more  prolonged  than  I  anticipated. 
Through  the  window-panes  covered  with  moisture 
I  gloomily  look  out  onto  a  court  filled  with  broken 
furniture,  where  the  twilight  is  falling  and  the 
snow. 

Who  could  have  foreseen  that  to-morrow,  by 
an  unexpected  turn  of  fortune,  I  should  be  sleep- 
ing on  a  great  gilded,  imperial  bed  in  a  strange 
fairyland  in  the  heart  of  the  Forbidden  City  ? 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       71 


VIII 

FRIDAY,  October  19. 

I  AWAKE  benumbed  with  the  damp  cold  of  my 
poor  lodging;  water  drips  down  the  walls  and 
the  stove  smokes. 

I  go  off  to  perform  a  commission  entrusted  to 
me  by  the  admiral  for  the  commander-in-chief  of 
our  land  troops,  General  Voyron,  who  lives  in  a 
small  house  near  by.  In  the  division  of  the  mys- 
terious Yellow  City,  made  by  the  heads  of  the 
allied  troops,  one  of  the  palaces  of  the  Empress 
fell  to  our  general.  He  installed  himself  there 
for  the  winter,  not  far  from  the  palace  which  was 
to  be  occupied  by  one  of  our  allies,  Field-Marshal 
von  Waldersee,  and  there  he  has  graciously  offered 
me  hospitality.  He  himself  leaves  for  Tien-Tsin 
to-day,  so  for  the  week  or  two  which  his  trip  will 
occupy  I  shall  be  there  alone  with  his  aide-de- 
camp, one  of  my  old  comrades,  who  has  charge 
of  adapting  this  residence  from  fairyland  to  the 
needs  of  military  service. 

What  a  change  it  will  be  from  my  plastered 
walls  and  charcoal  stove! 

My  flight  to  the  Yellow  City  will  not  take  place 
till  to-morrow  morning,  for  my  friend,  the  aide- 
de-camp,  expresses  his  kindly  wish  to  arrive  be- 


72 

fore  me  at  our  palace,  where  some  confusion 
reigns,  and  to  prepare  the  place  for  me. 

So,  having  no  further  duties  to-day,  I  accept 
the  offer  of  one  of  the  members  of  the  French 
legation  to  go  with  him  to  see  the  Temple  of 
Heaven.  It  has  stopped  snowing,  the  cold  north 
wind  has  chased  away  the  clouds,  and  the  sun  is 
shining  resplendently  in  the  pale  blue  sky. 

According  to  the  map  of  Pekin,  this  Temple  of 
Heaven  is  five  or  six  kilometres  from  here,  and  is 
the  largest  of  all  the  temples.  It  seems  that  it  is 
situated  in  the  midst  of  a  park  of  venerable  trees 
surrounded  by  double  walls.  Up  to  the  time  of 
the  war  the  spot  was  unapproachable;  the  em- 
perors came  once  a  year  and  shut  themselves  up 
there  for  a  solemn  sacrifice,  preceded  by  purifica- 
tions and  preparatory  rites. 

To  reach  it  we  have  to  go  outside  of  all  the 
ashes  and  ruins,  outside  of  the  Tartar  City  where 
we  are  staying,  through  the  gigantic  gates  of  the 
terrible  walls,  and  penetrate  to  the  Chinese  City 
itself. 

These  two  walled  cities,  which  together  make 
up  Pekin,  are  two  immense  quadrilaterals  placed 
side  by  side;  one,  the  Tartar  City,  contains  in  a 
fortress-like  enclosure  the  Yellow  City,  where  I 
go  to-morrow  to  take  up  my  abode. 

As  we  come  through  the  separating  wall  and  see 


I 


ON   THE   WAY   TO   PEKIN       73 

the  Chinese  City  framed  by  the  colossal  gateway, 
we  are  surprised  to  find  a  great  artery,  stately  and 
full  of  life  as  in  the  old  days,  running  straight 
through  Pekin,  which  up  to  this  time  had  seemed 
like  a  necropolis  to  us;  the  gold  decorations,  the 
color,  the  thousand  forms  of  monsters  were  all 
unexpected,  as  well  as  the  sudden  aggression  of 
noises,  of  music,  and  voices.  This  life,  this  agita- 
tion, this  Chinese  splendor,  are  inconceivable,  in- 
explicable to  us;  such  an  abyss  of  dissimilarity 
lies  between  this  world  and  ours! 

The  great  artery  stretches  on  before  us  broad 
and  straight,  —  a  road  three  or  four  kilometres 
long,  leading  finally  to  another  monumental  gate 
which  appears  in  the  distance,  surmounted  by  a 
dungeon  with  an  absurd  roof.  This  is  an  opening 
through  a  wall  beyond  which  is  the  outside  soli- 
tude. The  low  houses  which  line  the  street  on 
both  sides  seem  to  be  made  of  gold  lace,  from  top 
to  bottom  the  open  woodwork  of  their  fagades 
glitters ;  they  are  finely  carved  at  the  top,  all  shin- 
ing with  gold,  with  gargoyles  similar  to  our  own, 
and  rows  of  gilded  dragons.  Black  stele  covered 
with  gold  letters  rise  much  higher  than  the  houses, 
from  which  jut  out  black  and  gold  lacquered  plat- 
forms for  the  support  of  strange  emblems  with 
horns  and  claws  and  monsters'  faces. 

Through  the  clouds  of  dust,  the  gilding,  the 


74     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

dragons,  and  the  chimseras  glisten  in  the  dusty 
sunlight  as  far  as  one  can  see.  Above  it  all 
triumphal  arches  of  astonishing  lightness  mount 
heavenward  across  the  avenue;  they  are  airy 
things  of  carved  wood,  with  supports  like  the 
masts  of  a  ship,  which  repeat  against  the  pale 
blue  ether  more  strange  hostile  forms,  horns, 
claws,  and  fantastic  beasts. 

On  the  broad  highway  where  one  treads  as 
upon  ashes,  there  is  a  dull  rumbling  of  caravans 
and  horses.  The  stupendous  Mongolian  camels, 
brown  and  woolly,  attached  to  one  another  in  long 
endless  files,  pass  slowly  and  solemnly  along,  un- 
ceasingly like  the  waters  of  a  river,  raising  as  they 
walk  the  powdery  bed  which  stifles  the  sounds 
of  this  entire  city.  They  are  going,  who  knows 
where,  into  the  depths  of  the  Thibetan  or  Mon- 
golian deserts,  carrying  in  the  same  indefatigable 
and  unconscious  way  thousands  of  bales  of  mer- 
chandise; taking  the  place  of  canals  and  rivers 
which  convey  barges  and  junks  over  immense 
distances.  So  heavy  is  the  dust  raised  by  their 
feet  that  they  can  scarcely  lift  them;  the  legs  of 
these  innumerable  camels  in  procession,  as  well 
as  the  lower  parts  of  the  houses,  and  the  gar- 
ments of  the  passers-by,  are  all  vague  and  con- 
fused in  outline,  as  though  seen  through  the  thick 
smoke  of  a  forge,  or  through  a  shower  of  dark 


ON   THE   WAY  TO   PEKIN       75 

wool ;  but  the  backs  of  the  great  beasts  with  their 
shaggy  coats,  emerging  from  the  soft  clouds  near 
the  earth,  are  almost  sharply  defined,  and  the  gold 
of  the  facades,  tarnished  below,  shines  brightly  at 
the  height  of  the  extravagant  cornices. 

It  seems  like  a  phantasmagoric  city  with  no 
real  foundations,  resting  upon  a  cloud,  a  heavy 
cloud,  whereon  gigantic  sheep,  with  necks  en- 
larged by  a  thick  brown  fleece,  move  inoffensively. 

Above  the  dust  the  sun  shines  clear  and  white, 
making  resplendent  the  cold,  penetrating  light  in 
which  things  stand  out  incisively.  Objects  that 
are  high  up  above  the  ground  stand  out  with  abso- 
lute clearness.  The  smallest  of  small  monsters  on 
the  top  of  the  triumphal  arches  may  be  clearly 
seen,  as  well  as  the  most  delicate  carving  on  the 
summits  of  the  stele ;  one  can  even  count  the  teeth, 
the  forked  tongues,  the  squinting  eyes  of  the  hun- 
dreds of  gold  chimseras  which  jut  from  the  roofs. 

Pekin,  the  city  of  carvings  and  gildings,  the 
city  of  claws  and  horns,  is  still  capable  of  creating 
illusions;  on  dry,  sunny,  windy  days  it  recovers 
something  of  its  splendor  under  the  dust  of  the 
steppes,  under  the  veil  which  then  masks  the  shab- 
biness  of  its  streets  and  the  squalor  of  its  crowds. 

Yet  all  is  old  and  worn  in  spite  of  the  gilding 
which  still  remains  bright.  In  this  quarter  there 
was  continual  fighting  during  the  siege  of  the 


76     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

legations,  the  Boxers  destroying  the  homes  of 
those  whom  they  suspected  of  sympathy  for  the 
barbarians. 

The  long  avenue  which  we  have  been  following 
for  half  an  hour  ends  now  at  an  arched  bridge  of 
white  marble,  still  a  superb  object;  here  the  houses 
come  to  an  end,  and  on  the  opposite  bank  the 
gloomy  steppes  begin. 

This  was  the  Bridge  of  the  Beggars,  —  danger- 
ous inhabitants,  who,  before  the  capture  of  Pekin, 
ranged  themselves  on  both  sides  of  its  long  rail- 
ing and  extorted  money  from  the  passers-by ;  they 
formed  a  bold  corporation  with  a  king  at  its  head, 
who  often  went  armed.  Their  place  is  unoccupied 
to-day ;  the  vagrants  departed  after  the  battles  and 
massacres  began. 

Beyond  this  bridge  a  gray  plain,  empty  and 
desolate,  extends  for  two  kilometres,  as  far  as  the 
Great  Wall,  far  beyond  where  Pekin  ends.  The 
road,  with  its  tide  of  caravans,  goes  straight  on 
through  this  solitude  to  the  outside  gate.  Why 
should  this  desert  be  enclosed  by  the  city's  walls? 
There  is  not  a  trace  of  previous  constructions;  it 
must  always  have  been  as  it  is.  No  one  is  in  sight 
on  it;  a  few  stray  dogs,  a  few  rags,  a  few  bones, 
and  that  is  all. 

For  a  long  distance  into  this  steppe  there  are 
sombre  red  walls  at  both  right  and  left  which 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       77 

seem  to  enclose  great  cedar  woods.  The  enclosure 
at  the  right  is  that  of  the  Temple  of  Agriculture; 
at  the  left  is  the  Temple  of  Heaven,  for  which  we 
are  bound.  We  plunge  into  this  gloomy  region, 
leaving  the  dust  and  the  crowds  behind. 

The  enclosure  around  the  Temple  of  Heaven 
has  a  circumference  of  more  than  six  kilometres; 
it  is  one  of  the  most  extensive  in  the  whole 
city,  where  everything  is  on  an  old-time  scale  of 
grandeur  which  overpowers  us  to-day.  The  gate 
which  was  formerly  impassable  will  not  close  now, 
and  we  enter  the  wood  of  venerable  trees — cedars, 
arbor- vitae,  and  willows  —  through  which  long 
avenues  have  been  cut.  This  spot,  accustomed  to 
silence  and  respect,  is  now  profaned  by  barbarian 
cavalry.  Several  thousand  Indians  sent  out  to 
China  by  England  are  encamped  there;  their 
horses  have  trampled  the  grass;  the  turf  and  the 
moss  are  filled  with  rubbish  and  manure.  From 
a  marble  terrace  where  incense  to  the  gods  was 
formerly  burned,  clouds  of  infected  smoke  were 
rising,  the  English  having  chosen  this  place  for 
the  burning  of  cattle  that  die  of  the  plague,  and 
for  the  manufacture  of  bone-black. 

There  are,  as  in  all  sacred  woods,  two  enclos- 
ures. The  secondary  temples,  scattered  amongst 
the  cedars,  precede  the  great  central  temple. 

Never  having  been  here  before,  we  are  guided 


78     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

by  our  judgment  toward  something  which  must 
be  it,  higher  than  anything  else,  above  the  tops 
of  the  trees,  —  a  distant  rotunda  with  a  roof  of 
blue  enamel,  surmounted  by  a  gold  sphere  which 
glistens  in  the  sunshine. 

The  rotunda,  when  we  finally  reach  it,  proves 
to  be  the  sanctuary  itself.  Its  approaches  are 
silent;  there  are  no  more  horses  or  barbarian 
riders.  It  stands  on  a  high  esplanade  of  white 
marble  reached  by  a  series  of  steps  and  by  an 
"  imperial  path,"  reserved  for  the  Son  of  Heaven, 
who  is  not  permitted  to  mount  stairs.  An  "  im- 
perial path  "  is  an  inclined  plane,  usually  an  enor- 
mous monolith  of  marble  placed  at  an  easy  angle, 
upon  which  the  five-clawed  dragon  is  sculptured 
in  bas-relief;  the  scales  of  the  great  heraldic  ani- 
mal, its  coils  and  its  nails,  serve  to  sustain  the 
Emperor's  steps  and  to  prevent  his  feet,  dressed 
in  silk,  from  slipping  on  the  strange  path  reserved 
for  Him  alone,  and  which  no  Chinese  would  dare 
to  tread. 

We  mount  irreverently  by  this  "  imperial  path," 
scratching  the  fine  white  scales  of  the  dragon  with 
our  coarse  shoes. 

From  the  top  of  the  lonely  terrace,  melan- 
choly and  everlastingly  white  with  the  unchang- 
ing whiteness  of  marble,  one  sees  above  the  trees 
of  the  wood,  great  Pekin  in  its  dust,  which  the 


Copyright,  1901,  by  J.  C.  tiemment 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  HEAVEN 


ON   THE   WAY   TO    PEKIN       79 

sun  is  beginning  to  gild  as  it  gilds  the  tiny  even- 
ing clouds. 

The  gate  of  the  temple  is  open,  and  guarded 
by  an  Indian  trooper  with  oblong  sphynx-like 
eyes,  as  out  of  his  element  as  we  in  this  ultra- 
Chinese  and  sacred  environment.  He  salutes  us 
and  permits  us  to  enter. 

The  circular  temple  is  bright  with  red  and  gold 
and  has  a  roof  of  blue  enamel ;  it  is  a  new  temple 
built  to  replace  a  very  old  one  which  was  burned 
ten  years  ago.  The  altar  is  bare,  it  is  bare  every- 
where; plunderers  have  passed  over  it,  leaving 
nothing  but  the  marble  pavements,  the  beautiful 
lacquered  ceilings,  and  the  walls ;  the  tall  columns 
of  red  lacquer,  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  circle, 
all  taper  uniforrnly  and  are  decorated  with  gar- 
lands of  gold  flowers. 

On  the  esplanade  around  it,  weeds  have  pushed 
their  way  here  and  there  between  the  carved  stones 
of  the  pavement,  attesting  the  extreme  age  of  the 
marble  in  spite  of  its  immaculate  whiteness.  It  is 
a  commanding  place,  erected  at  great  expense  for 
the  contemplation  of  the  sovereigns,  and  we  linger, 
like  the  Sons  of  Heaven  themselves,  to  gaze  upon  it. 

In  our  immediate  vicinity  the  tops  of  the  arbor- 
vitae  and  the  cedars,  —  the  great  wood  which  en- 
velops us  in  calm  and  silence,  —  come  first.  Then, 
toward  the  north  is  the  endless  but  obscure  city, 


8o     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKTN 

which  seems  almost  unreal;  one  divines  rather 
than  sees  it,  so  hidden  is  it  in  the  smoke  or  fog 
which  forms  a  gauzy  veil.  It  might  be  a  mirage 
were  it  not  for  the  monumental  roofs  of  exagger- 
ated proportions,  whose  tops  of  shining  enamel 
emerge  from  the  fog  here  and  there,  clear  and 
real;  these  are  palaces  and  pagodas.  Beyond 
all  this,  very  far  away,  is  the  crest  of  the  moun- 
tains of  Mongolia,  which  to-night  have  no  base 
and  seem  to  be  cut  out  of  blue  and  red  paper  high 
up  in  the  air.  Toward  the  west  is  the  gray  steppe 
through  which  we  have  come;  the  slow  proces- 
sion of  caravans  crossing  it  marks  upon  it  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  see  an  uninterrupted  brown  path; 
we  realize  that  this  endless  procession  goes  on 
for  hundreds  of  miles,  and  that  on  all  the  great 
roads  of  China,  to  its  most  distant  frontiers,  simi- 
lar processions  are  moving  with  identical  slowness. 
It  is  the  old  unchanging  method  of  com- 
munication between  these  men  so  different  from 
ourselves,  —  men  with  perseverance  and  infinite 
patience,  for  whom  the  march  of  time,  which  un- 
steadies  us,  does  not  exist;  it  forms  for  them 
the  arterial  circulation  of  this  boundless  empire, 
where  four  or  five  hundred  million  brains  —  the 
reverse  of  our  own  and  forever  incomprehensible 
to  us  —  live  and  speculate. 


IV 

IN  THE  IMPERIAL  CITY 

I 

SATURDAY,  October  20. 

IT  snows.     The  sky  is  lowering  and  overcast, 
with  no  hope  of  clearing,  as  though  there  were 
no  longer  any  sun.     A  furious  north  wind  is 
blowing,  and  the  black  dust  whirls  and  eddies, 
commingling  with  the  snowflakes. 

This  morning,  my  first  interview  with  our  min- 
ister took  place  at  the  Spanish  legation.  His  tem- 
perature has  fallen,  but  he  is  still  very  weak,  and 
must  remain  in  bed  for  some  days,  so  I  am  obliged 
to  postpone  until  to-morrow  or  the  day  .after  the 
communications  I  have  to  make  to  him. 

I  take  my  last  meal  with  the  members  of  the 
French  legation  in  the  chancellor's  house,  where, 
in  default  of  sumptuous  quarters,  they  have  offered 
me  the  most  kindly  hospitality.  At  half-past  one 
the  two  little  Chinese  chariots  arrive,  lent  me  for 
the  emigration  of  myself,  my  people,  and  my  light 
to  the  Yellow  City* 

6 


82     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

The  Chinese  chariots  are  very  small,  very  mas- 
sive, very  heavy,  and  entirely  without  springs; 
mine  has  something  of  the  elegance  of  a  hearse; 
the  outside  is  covered  with  a  slaty-gray  silk,  with 
a  wide  border  of  black  velvet. 

We  are  to  journey  toward  the  northwest,  in  the 
opposite  direction  from  the  Chinese  City  where 
we  were  yesterday,  and  from  the  Temple  of 
Heaven.  We  have  five  or  six  kilometres  to  go 
almost  at  a  walk,  on  account  of  the  pitiable  con- 
dition of  the  streets  and  bridges,  where  most  of 
the  paving  stones  are  missing. 

These  Chinese  chariots  cannot  be  closed;  they 
are  like  a  simple  sentry  box  mounted  on  wheels,  — 
so  to-day  we  are  lashed  by  the  wind,  cut  by  the 
snow,  blinded  by  the  dust. 

First  come  the  ruins  of  the  legation  district,  full 
of  soldiers.  Then  more  lonely,  almost  deserted 
and  entirely  Chinese  ruins  —  one  gray,  dusty  dev- 
astation,, seen  vaguely  through  clouds  of  black 
and  clouds  of  white.  At  the  gates  and  on  the 
bridges  are  European  or  Japanese  sentinels,  for  the 
whole  city  is  under  military  rule.  From  time  to 
time  we  meet  soldiers  and  ambulances  carrying  the 
flag  of  the  Red-Cross  Society. 

At  last  the  first  enclosure  of  the  Yellow  or 
Imperial  City  is  announced  by  the  interpreter  of 
the  French  legation,  who  has  kindly  offered  to  be 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY        83 

my  guide,  and  to  share  my  chariot  with  its  funeral 
trappings.  I  try  to  look,  but  the  wind  burns  my 
eyes. 

We  are  passing  with  frightful  jolts  through 
great  blood-colored  ramparts,  not  by  way  of  a 
gate,  but  through  a  breach  made  with  a  mine  by 
Indian  cavalrymen. 

Pekin,  on  the  farther  side  of  this  wall,  is  some- 
what less  injured.  In  some  of  the  streets  the 
houses  have  kept  their  outside  covering  of  gilded 
woodwork  and  their  rows  of  chimseras  along  the 
edges  of  the  roofs;  all  this  is  crumbling  and  de- 
cayed, it  is  true,  licked  by  the  flames  or  riddled  by 
grape-shot.  An  evil-looking  rabble,  dressed  in 
sheepskins  or  blue  cotton  rags,  still  swarms  in 
some  of  the  houses. 

Another  rampart  of  the  same  blood  red  and  a 
great  gate  ornamented  with  faience  through  which 
we  must  pass,  —  this  time  it  is  the  real  gate  of  the 
Imperial  City,  the  gate  of  the  region  which  no  one 
was  ever  allowed  to  enter ;  it  is  to  me  as  though  it 
had  been  announced  as  the  gate  to  mystery  or  to 
an  enchanted  land. 

We  enter,  and  my  surprise  is  great ;  for  it  is  not 
a  city,  but  a  wood,  —  a  sombre  wood,  infested 
with  crows  which  croak  in  the  gray  branches.  The 
trees  are  the  same  as  those  at  the  Temple  of 
Heaven,  —  cedars,  arbor-vitse,  and  willows,  —  old 


84     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

trees  all  of  them,  of  twisted  shapes,  unknown 
in  our  country.  Sleet  and  snow  cling  to  their 
branches,  and  the  inevitable  dust  in  the  narrow, 
windy  paths  engulfs  us. 

There  are  also  wooded  hills  where  kiosks  of 
faience  rise  among  the  cedars;  in  spite  of  their 
height,  it  is  plain  that  they  are  artificial.  Obscured 
by  the  snow  and  dust,  we  can  see  here  and  there 
in  the  distant  wood  austere  old  palaces,  with  enam- 
elled roofs,  guarded  by  horrible  marble  monsters 
which  crouch  at  the  thresholds. 

The  whole  place  is  of  an  incontestable  beauty, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  is  dismal,  unfriendly, 
and  disturbing  under  this  sombre  sky. 

Now  we  approach  some  enormous  object  which 
we  shall  soon  be  alongside  of.  Is  it  a  fortress, 
a  prison,  or  something  more  lugubrious  still? 
Double  ramparts  without  end,  always  blood  red, 
with  gloomy  dungeons  and  a  moat  thirty  metres 
wide,  full  of  water-lilies  and  dying  roses.  This 
is  the  Violet  City,  enclosed  in  the  heart  of  the  im- 
penetrable Imperial  City,  and  more  impenetrable 
still.  It  is  the  residence  of  the  Invisible,  of  the 
Son  of  Heaven  —  God !  but  the  place  is  gloomy, 
hostile,  savage,  beneath  this  sombre  sky! 

We  continue  to  advance  under  the  old  trees  into 
what  seems  the  park  of  death. 

These  dumb,  closed  palaces,  seen  first  on  one 


IN    THE    IMPERIAL   CITY        85 

side,  then  on  the  other,  are  the  Temple  of  the  God 
of  the  Clouds,  the  Temple  of  Imperial  Longevity, 
or  the  Temple  of  the  Benediction  of  Sacred  Moun- 
tains. Their  names,  inconceivable  to  us,  the  names 
of  an  Asiatic  dream,  make  them  still  more  unreal. 

My  companion  assures  me  that  this  Yellow  City 
is  not  always  so  terrible  as  it  is  to-day;  for  this 
weather  is  exceptional  in  a  Chinese  autumn,  which 
is  usually  magnificently  luminous.  He  promises 
me  afternoons  of  warm  sunshine  in  this  wood, 
unique  in  all  the  world,  where  I  shall  make  my 
home  for  several  days. 

"  Now  look,"  he  said,  "  look !  This  is  the  Lake 
of  the  Lotus,  and  that  is  the  Marble  Bridge." 

The  Lake  of  the  Lotus  and  the  Marble  Bridge! 
These  two  names  have  long  been  known  to  me  as 
the  names  of  things  which  could  not  be  seen,  but 
of  things  whose  reputations  had  crossed  insur- 
mountable walls.  They  call  up  images  of  light 
and  intense  color,  and  are  a  surprise  to  me  here 
in  this  mournful  desert,  in  this  icy  wind. 

The  Lake  of  the  Lotus!  I  had  pictured  it  as 
sung  by  the  Chinese  poets,  of  an  exquisite  limpidity 
with  great  calices  open  to  an  abundance  of  water, 
a  sort  of  aquatic  plain  covered  with  pink  flowers, 
pink  from  one  end  to  the  other.  And  this  is  it! 
—  This  slime  and  this  gloomy  swamp,  covered 
with  dead  leaves  turned  brown  by  the  frost!  It 


86     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

is  infinitely  larger  than  I  supposed,  this  lake  made 
by  the  hand  of  man;  it  goes  on  and  on  toward 
nostalgic  shores,  where  ancient  pagodas  appear 
among  the  old  trees,  under  the  gray  sky. 

The  Marble  Bridge !  Yes,  this  long,  white  arch 
supported  by  a  series  of  white  pillars,  this  exceed- 
ingly graceful  curve,  the  balustrades  with  mon- 
sters' heads,  —  this  all  corresponds  to  the  idea  I 
had  of  it;  it  is  very  sumptuous  and  very  Chinese. 
I  had  not,  however,  foreseen  the  two  dead  bodies 
decaying  in  their  robes,  which  lay  among  the  reeds 
at  the  entrance  to  the  bridge. 

The  large  dead  leaves  on  the  lake  are  really 
lotus-leaves;  I  recognize  them  now  that  I  see 
them  near  at  hand,  and  remember  to  have  seen 
similar  ones  —  but  oh,  so  green  and  fresh  —  on 
the  ponds  of  Nagasaki  or  of  Yeddo.  And  there 
once  must  have  been  here  the  effect  of  an  uninter- 
rupted covering  of  pink  blossoms;  their  fading 
stems  rise  now  by  thousands  above  the  slime. 

They  will  undoubtedly  die,  these  fields  of  lotus, 
which  for  centuries  have  charmed  the  eyes  of  the 
emperors,  for  the  lake  is  almost  empty;  it  is  the 
Allies  who  have  turned  its  water  into  the  canal 
that  connects  Pekin,  with  the  river,  in  order  to 
re-establish  this  route  which  the  Chinese  had  dried 
up  for  fear  of  its  serving '  the  purpose  of  the 
invaders. 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY       87 

The  Marble  Bridge,  white  and  solitary,  leads 
us  across  to  the  other  bank  of  the  lake,  very  nar- 
row at  this  point,  and  there  I  shall  find  the  Palace 
of  the  North,  which  is  to  be  my  residence.  At  first 
I  do  not  see  that  there  are  enclosures  within  en- 
closures, all  with  great  gates,  dilapidated  and  in 
ruins.  A  dull  light  falls  from  the  wintry  sky 
through  opaque  clouds  that  are  filled  with  snow. 

In  the  centre  of  a  gray  wall  there  is  a  breach 
where  an  African  chasseur  is  on  guard;  on  one 
side  lies  a  dead  dog,  on  the  other  a  pile  of  rags 
and  filth  breathing  a  corpse-like  odor.  This,  it 
appears,  is  the  entrance  to  my  palace. 

We  are  black  with  dust,  powdered  with  snow, 
and  our  teeth  are  chattering  with  cold,  when  we 
finally  get  down  from  our  chariot  in  a  court  en- 
cumbered with  debris,  where  my  comrade,  Cap- 
tain C,  the  aide-de-camp,  comes  to  meet  me. 
With  an  approach  like  this,  one  well  might  won- 
der if  the  promised  palace  were  not  chimerical. 

Just  back  of  this  court  there  is,  however,  the  first 
appearance  of  magnificence.  Here  and  there  is  a 
long  gallery  of  glass,  light,  elegant,  and  appar- 
ently intact,  amid  so  much  destruction.  Through 
the  panes  one  has  glimpses  of  gold,  porcelains,  and 
imperial  silks  with  designs  of  dragons  and  clouds. 
This  is  one  corner  of  the  palace,  completely  hidden 
until  you  are  right  upon  it. 


88     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

Oh,  our  evening  meal  on  the  night  of  our 
arrival  in  this  strange  dwelling!  It  is  almost 
totally  dark.  At  an  ebony  table  my  companion  and 
I  are  seated,  wrapped  in  our  military  cloaks 
with  collars  turned  up,  our  teeth  chattering  with 
cold,  and  are  served  by  our  orderlies  with  trem- 
bling limbs.  A  feeble  little  Chinese  candle  of  red 
wax,  stuck  in  a  bottle,  —  a  candle  picked  up  in  the 
debris  from  some  ancestral  altar,  —  sheds  a  dim 
light,  blown  as  it  is  by  the  wind.  Our  plates,  in 
fact  all  the  dishes,  are  of  porcelain  of  inestimable 
value,  —  imperial  yellow,  marked  with  the  cipher 
of  a  fastidious  emperor,  who  was  a  contemporary 
of  Louis  XV.  But  our  wine  and  our  muddy  water 
—  boiled  and  reboiled  for  fear  of  poison  in  the 
wells  —  are  in  horrible  old  bottles  with  bits  of 
potato,  cut  into  shape  by  the  soldiers,  for  corks. 

The  gallery  where  this  scene  takes  place  is  very 
long;  the  distance  is  lost  in  obscurity  where  the 
splendors  of  an  Asiatic  tale  are  dimly  perceived. 
Its  sides  are  of  glass  up  to  the  height  of  a  man, 
and  this  frail  wall  is  all  that  separates  us  from  the 
sinister  darkness  which  surrounds  us;  one  has  a 
feeling  that  the  wandering  forms  outside,  the 
phantoms  attracted  by  our  small  light,  may  from 
a  distance  see  us  at  table,  and  this  is  disturbing. 
Above  the  glass  there  is  a  series  of  light  frames 
containing  rice-paper,  which  reach  to  the  ceiling, 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY       89 

from  which  marvellous  ebony  sculptures  depend, 
delicate  as  lacework;  this  rice-paper  is  torn,  and 
allows  the  mortally  cold  night  wind  to  strike  us. 
Our  frozen  feet  rest  on  imperial  yellow  carpets 
of  the  finest  wool,  with  the  five-horned  dragons 
sprawling  upon  them.  Close  to  us  gigantic  in- 
cense-burners of  cloisonne  of  the  old  inimitable 
blue,  with  gold  elephants  as  pedestals,  are  softly 
burning;  there  are  magnificent  and  fanciful 
screens;  phrenixes  of  enamel  spread  their  long 
wings ;  thrones,  monsters,  things  without  age  and 
without  price  abound.  And  there  we  are,  inele- 
gant, dusty,  worn,  soiled,  with  the  air  of  coarse 
barbarians,  installed  like  intruders  in  fairyland. 

What  must  this  gallery  have  been  scarcely  three 
months  ago,  when  instead  of  silence  and  death 
there  was  life,  music,  and  flowers;  when  a  crowd 
of  courtiers  and  servants  in  silken  robes  peopled 
these  approaches  so  empty  and  ruined  to-day; 
when  the  Empress,  followed  by  the  ladies  of  the 
palace,  passed  by  dressed  like  goddesses! 

Having  finished  our  supper,  which  consisted  of 
the  regular  army  ration,  having  finished  drinking 
our  tea  out  of  museum-like  porcelain,  now  for  the 
hour  of  smoking  and  conversation.  No,  we  try  in 
vain  to  think  it  amusing  to  be  here,  in  this  un- 
foreseen and  half  fantastic  way.  It  is  too  cold; 
the  wind  chills  us  to  the  marrow.  We  do  not 


9o     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

enjoy  anything.  We  prefer  to  go  off  and  to  try 
to  sleep. 

My  comrade,  Captain  C,  who  has  taken  pos- 
session of  the  place,  leads  me  with  a  lantern  and 
a  few  followers  to  the  apartment  set  aside  for  me. 
It  is  on  the  rez-de-chausee,  of  course ;  there  are  no 
real  stories  in  Chinese  houses.  As  in  the  gallery, 
from  which  we  come,  there  is  nothing  between  me 
and  tne  night  outside  but  a  few  panes  of  glass, 
very  light  shades  of  white  silk,  and  windows  of 
rice-paper  torn  from  one  end  to  the  other.  As 
to  the  door,  which  is  made  of  one  great  pane1  of 
glass,  I  fasten  it  with  a  cord,  since  there  is  no 
lock. 

There  are  some  admirable  yellow  rugs  on  the 
floor,  thick  as  cushions.  I  have  a  big  imperial  bed 
of  carved  ebony,  and  my  mattress  and  pillows  are 
covered  with  precious  silk  embroidered  in  gold, 
but  there  are  no  sheets,  although  I  have  a  soldier's 
gray  woollen  blanket. 

To-morrow  my  companion  tells  me  I  may  go 
and  select  from  her  Majesty's  reserve  supply  what- 
ever I  wish  in  the  way  of  further  decorations  for 
this  room,  as  it  can  do  no  one  any  harm  to  move 
things  about. 

Assuring  me  that  the  gates  of  the  outer  enclos- 
ure, as  well  as  the  breach  by  which  I  entered,  are 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY       91 

guarded  by  sentinels,  he  retires  with  his  orderlies 
to  the  other  end  of  the  palace. 

Dressed,  and  with  my  boots  on,  I  stretch  myself 
out  on  the  beautiful  silk  cushions,  adding  to  my 
gray  blanket  an  old  sheepskin  and  two  or  three 
imperial  robes  embroidered  with  gold  chimseras. 
My  two  servants  arrange  themselves  in  like  man- 
ner on  the  floor.  Before  blowing  out  the  red 
candle  from  some  ancestral  altar,  I  am  constrained 
to  admit  in  my  secret  soul  that  the  accusation  that 
we  are  "  Occidental  barbarians "  has  been  com- 
pletely confirmed  since  supper. 

The  wind  has  tormented  and  torn  all  that  was 
left  of  the  rice-paper  in  my  panes ;  above  me  there 
is  a  perpetual  sound  like  the  movement  of  the 
wings  of  nocturnal  birds  or  the  flight  of  bats. 
I  distinguish  occasionally,  although  half  asleep,  a 
short  fusillade  or  an  isolated  cry  in  the  distance. 


II 

SUNDAY,  October  21. 

COLD,  darkness,  death,  all  that  oppressed  us  last 
night,  has  disappeared  with  the  morning  light. 
The  sun  shines  warm  as  a  summer  sun.  The 
somewhat  disordered  Chinese  magnificence  which 
surrounds  us  is  bright  with  the  light  of  the 
East. 


92     THE    LAST    DAYS    OF    PEKIN 

It  is  amusing  to  go  on  a  voyage  of  discovery 
over  this  almost  hidden  palace,  which  lurks  in 
a  low  spot,  behind  walls,  under  trees,  looking 
quite  insignificant  as  you  approach  it,  but  is,  to- 
gether with  its  dependencies,  almost  as  large  as  a 
city. 

It  is  made  up  of  long  galleries  enclosed  on  all 
sides  in  glass ;  the  light  framework,  the  verandahs, 
the  small  columns,  are  painted  on  the  outside  a 
greenish  bronze  decorated  with  pink  water-lilies. 

One  has  the  feeling  that  it  was  built  according 
to  the  fancies  of  a  woman ;  it  even  seems  as  though 
the  splendid  old  Empress  had  left  in  it,  along  with 
her  bibelots,  a  touch  of  her  superannuated  yet  still 
charming  grace. 

The  galleries  cross  one  another  at  right  angles, 
forming  courts  at  the  junctures,  like  little  cloisters. 
They  are  filled  with  objects  of  art,  which  can  be 
equally  well  seen  from  without,  for  the  entire 
palace  is  transparent  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
There  is  nothing  to  protect  all  this  glass  even  at 
night;  the  place  was  enclosed  by  so  many  walls 
and  seemed  so  inviolable  that  no  other  precau- 
tion was  deemed  necessary. 

Within,  the  architectural  elegance  consists  of 
arches  of  rare  wood,  crossing  at  frequent  in- 
tervals; they  are  made  of  enormous  beams  so 
carved,  so  leafy,  so  open,  that  they  seem  like 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY       93 

lace,  or,  rather,  like  bowers  of  dark  leaves  that 
form  a  perspective  comparable  to  the  lanes  in  old 
parks. 

The  wing  which  we  occupy  must  have  been  the 
wing  of  honor.  The  farther  away  from  it  one 
goes  in  the  direction  of  the  woods  where  the  palace 
ends,  the  more  simple  does  the  decoration  become. 
At  one  end  are  the  lodgings  of  the  mandarins,  the 
stewards,  the  gardeners,  the  domestics,  all  hur- 
riedly abandoned  and  full  of  unfamiliar  objects, 
household  utensils  or  those  used  in  worship,  cere- 
monial hats  and  court  liveries. 

Then  comes  an  enclosed  garden  which  is  entered 
by  an  elaborately  carved  marble  gate.  Here  one 
finds  small  fountains,  pretentious  and  curious 
rockwork,  and  rows  of  vases  containing  plants 
which  have  died  from  lack  of  water  or  from  cold. 
Further  on  there  is  an  orchard  where  figs,  grapes, 
eggplant,  pumpkins,  and  gourds  were  cultivated, 
—  gourds  especially,  for  in  China  they  are  em- 
blems of  happiness,  and  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
Empress  to  offer  one  with  her  own  white  hands  to 
each  of  the  dignitaries  who  came  to  pay  his  court 
to  her  in  exchange  for  the  magnificent  presents 
he  brought  her.  There  are  also  small  pavilions 
for  the  cultivation  of  silkworms  and  little  kiosks 
for  storing  edible  grains;  each  kind  was  kept  in 


94    THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

a  porcelain  jar  decorated  with  imperial  dragons, 
worthy  of  a  place  in  a  museum. 

The  parks  of  this  artificial  little  landscape  end 
in  the  brush,  where  they  lose  themselves  under  the 
leafless  trees  of  the  wood  where  to-day  the  crows 
and  the  magpies  are  enjoying  the  beautiful  autumn 
sun.  It  seems  that  when  the  Empress  gave  up  the 
regency  —  and  we  know  by  what  an  audacious 
manoeuvre  she  so  quickly  managed  to  take  it  up 
again  —  it  was  her  caprice  to  construct  a  bit  of 
the  country  here  in  the  heart  of  Pekin,  in  the  very 
centre  of  this  immense  human  ant-hill. 

The  most  surprising  thing  in  all  this  enclosure 
is  a  Gothic  church  with  two  granite  bell-towers,  a 
parsonage,  and  a  school,  —  all  built  in  other  days 
by  the  missionaries  and  all  of  enormous  size.  But 
in  order  to  create  this  palace  it  was  necessary  to 
enlarge  the  limits  of  the  Imperial  City  and  to 
include  in  them  this  Christian  territory;  so  the 
Empress  gave  the  Lazarist  Fathers  more  land  and 
a  more  beautiful  church,  erected  at  her  own  ex- 
pense, where  the  missionaries  and  several  thousand 
converts  endured  all  last  summer  the  horrors  of  a 
four-months'  siege. 

Like  the  systematic  woman  that  she  was,  her 
Majesty  utilized  the  church  and  its  dependencies 
for  storing  her  reserves  of  all  sorts,  packed  in 
innumerable  boxes.  One  could  not  imagine  with- 


IN  THE   IMPERIAL   CITY       95 

out  having  seen  them  what  an  accumulation  there 
could  be  of  the  strange,  the  marvellous,  and  the 
preposterous  in  the  reserve  stock  of  bibelots  be- 
longing to  an  Empress  of  China. 

The  Japanese  were  the  first  to  forage  there, 
then  came  the  Cossacks,  and,  lastly,  the  Germans, 
who  left  the  place  to  us.  At  present  the  church  is 
in  indescribable  disorder,  —  boxes  opened,  their 
precious  contents  scattered  outside  in  rubbish 
heaps ;  there  are  streams  of  broken  china,  cascades 
of  enamel,  ivory,  and  porcelain. 

In  the  long  glass  galleries  a  similar  state  of 
things  exists.  My  comrade,  who  is  charged  with 
straightening  out  the  chaos  and  making  an  in- 
ventory, reminds  me  of  that  person  who  was  shut 
up  by  an  evil  spirit  in  a  chamber  filled  with  the 
feathers  of  all  the  birds  of  the  woods  and  com- 
pelled to  sort  them  by  species;  those  of  the  finch, 
the  linnet,  the  bullfinch  together.  However,  he 
has  already  set  about  his  difficult  task,  and  with 
Chinese  workmen,  under  the  direction  of  a  few 
marines  and  some  African  chasseurs,  has  already 
begun  to  clear  things  away. 

Five  metres  from  here,  on  the  opposite  shores 
of  the  Lake  of  the  Lotus,  as  I  was  retracing  my 
steps  last  night,  I  found  a  second  palace  which 
once  belonged  to  the  Empress,  which  is  now  ours 


96     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

also.  In  this  palace,  which  no  one  is  occupying 
at  the  moment,  I  am  authorized  to  set  up  my 
work-room  for  a  few  days,  so  that  I  may  have 
quiet  and  isolation. 

It  is  called  the  Rotunda  Palace.  Exactly  oppo- 
site the  Marble  Bridge,  it  resembles  a  circular 
fortress,  on  which  have  been  placed  small  mira- 
dors,  —  little,  fairy-like  castles,  —  and  the  single 
low  entrance  is  guarded  day  and  night  by  sol- 
diers, whose  orders  are  to  admit  no  one. 

When  you  have  crossed  the  threshold  of  this 
citadel,  and  the  guards  have  closed  the  door  after 
you,  you  penetrate  into  the  most  exquisite  soli- 
tude. An  inclined  plane  leads  you  to  a  vast  es- 
planade about  twelve  metres  above  the  ground, 
where  the  miradors  —  the  little  kiosks  —  seen 
from  below  stand;  there  is  a  garden  with  old, 
old  trees,  a  labyrinth  of  rocks,  and  a  large  pagoda 
shining  with  gold  and  enamel. 

From  here  there  is  a  commanding  view  of  the 
palace  and  its  park.  On  one  side  the  Lake  of  the 
Lotus  is  spread  out;  on  the  other,  one  has  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  Violet  City,  showing  the 
almost  endless  succession  of  high  imperial  roofs, 
—  a  world  of  roofs,  a  world  of  enamel  shining  in 
the  sunshine,  a  world  of  horns,  claws,  and  mon- 
sters on  gable  and  tiling. 

I  walk  in  the  solitude  of  this  high  place,  in  the 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY       97 

shade  of  the  old  trees,  trying  to  understand  the 
arrangement  of  the  house  and  to  choose  a  study 
to  my  fancy. 

In  the  centre  of  the  esplanade  is  the  magnificent 
pagoda  which  was  struck  by  a  shell  and  which  is 
still  in  battle  disarray.  Its  presiding  divinity  — 
a  white  goddess,  who  was  the  Palladium  of  the 
Chinese  empire,  an  alabaster  goddess  with  a  gold 
dress  embroidered  with  precious  stones  —  medi- 
tates with  downcast  eyes,  sweet,  calm,  and  smil- 
ing, in  the  midst  of  the  destruction  of  her  sacred 
vases,  of  her  incense-burners  and  her  flowers. 

One  large  gloomy  room  has  kept  its  furnish- 
ings intact,  —  an  admirable  ebony  throne,  some 
screens,  seats  of  all  shapes,  and  cushions  of  heavy 
yellow  imperial  silk,  brocaded  with  a  cloud  effect. 

Among  all  the  silent  kiosks  the  one  which  I  fix 
upon  as  my  choice  is  at  the  very  edge  of  the  es- 
planade on  the  crest  of  the  surrounding  wall,  over- 
looking the  Lake  of  the  Lotus  and  the  Marble 
Bridge,  and  commanding  a  view  of  the  whole 
factitious  landscape,  —  created  out  of  gold  ingots 
and  human  lives  to  please  the  weary  eyes  of 
emperors. 

It  is  hardly  larger  than  a  ship's  cabin,  but  its 
sides  are  made  of  glass  extending  to  the  roof,  so 
that  I  shall  be  kept  warm  until  nightfall  by  the 
autumn  sun,  which  here  in  China  is  seldom  over- 

7 


98     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

clouded.  I  have  a  table  and  two  ebony  chairs 
with  yellow  silk  coverings  brought  in  from  the 
adjoining  room,  —  and  thus  installed,  I  descend 
again  to  the  Marble  Bridge  and  return  to  the 
Palace  of  the  North,  where  Captain  C,  my  com- 
panion in  this  Chinese  dream,  is  waiting  break- 
fast for  me. 

I  arrive  in  time  to  see,  before  they  are  burned, 
the  curious  discoveries  of  the  morning, — the  deco- 
rations, emblems,  and  accessories  of  the  Chinese 
Imperial  Theatre.  They  were  cumbersome,  frail 
things,  intended  to  serve  but  for  a  night  or  two, 
and  then  forgotten  for  an  indefinite  time  in  a 
room  that  was  never  opened,  and  which  they  are 
now  clearing  out  and  cleaning  for  a  hospital  for 
our  sick  and  wounded.  Mythological  representa- 
tions were  evidently  given  at  this  theatre,  the 
scene  taking  place  either  in  hell  or  with  the  gods 
in  the  clouds;  and  such  a  collection  as  there  was 
of  monsters,  chimaeras,  wild  beasts,  and  devils, 
in  cardboard  or  paper,  mounted  on  carcasses  made 
of  bamboo  or  whalebone,  all  devised  with  a  per- 
fect genius  for  the  horrible,  with  an  imagination 
surpassing  the  limits  of  a  nightmare! 

The  rats,  the  dampness,  and  the  ants  have 
caused  irremediable  havoc  among  them,  so  it  has 
been  decided  to  burn  all  these  figures  that  have 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY       99 

served  to  amuse  or  to  trouble  the  dreams  of  the 
drowsy,  dissipated,  feeble  young  Emperor. 

Our  soldiers  are  hurrying  amid  joy  and  laugh- 
ter to  carry  all  these  things  out  of  doors.  Here 
in  the  morning  sunlight  of  the  courtyard  are 
apocalyptic  beasts  and  life-sized  elephants  that 
weigh  nothing  at  all,  and  which  one  man  can 
make  walk  or  run.  They  kick  them,  they  jump 
upon  them,  they  jump  into  them,  they  walk 
through  them  and  reduce  them  to  nothing;  then 
at  last  they  light  the  gay  torch,  which  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  consumes  them. 

Other  soldiers  have  been  working  all  the  morn- 
ing pasting  rice-paper  into  the  sashes  of  our  palace 
so  that  the  wind  shall  not  enter.  As  for  artificial 
heat,  it  comes  up  from  below,  Chinese  fashion, 
from  subterranean  furnaces  which  are  arranged 
under  the  rooms,  and  which  we  shall  light  this 
evening  as  soon  as  the  chill  conies  on.  For  the 
moment  the  splendid  sunshine  suffices;  so  much 
glass  in  the  galleries,  where  the  silks,  enamels, 
and  gold  glisten,  gives  us  the  heat  of  a  green- 
house, and  on  this  occasion  we  take  our  meal, 
which  is  always  served  on  the  Emperor's  china, 
in  an  illusion  of  summer. 

The  sky  of  Pekin  is  subject  to  excessive  and 
sudden  variations  of  which  we  with  our  regular 


climate  can  form  no  conception.  Toward  the 
middle  of  the  day,  when  I  find  myself  out  of 
doors  again  under  the  cedars  of  the  Yellow  City, 
the  sun  has  suddenly  disappeared  behind  some 
leaden  clouds  which  seem  heavy  with  snow;  the 
Mongolian  wind  begins  to  blow,  bitter  cold,  as  it 
was  yesterday,  and  again  a  northern  winter  fol- 
lows with  no  transition  stage  a  few  hours  of  the 
radiant  weather  of  the  Midi. 

I  have  an  arrangement  to  meet  the  members  of 
the  French  legation  in  the  woods,  to  explore  with 
them  the  sepulchral  Violet  City,  which  is  the 
centre,  the  heart,  the  mystery  of  China,  the  veri- 
table abode  of  the  Son  of  Heaven,  the  enormous 
Sardanapalian  citadel,  in  comparison  with  which 
all  the  small  modern  palaces  in  the  Imperial  City 
where  we  are  living  seem  but  children's  playthings. 

Even  since  the  flight  it  has  not  been  easy  to 
enter  the  Violet  City  with  its  yellow  enamelled 
roofs.  Behind  the  double  walls,  mandarins  and 
eunuchs  still  dwell  in  this  home  of  magnificence 
and  oppression,  and  it  is  said  that  a  few  women, 
hidden  princesses,  and  treasures  still  remain.  The 
two  gates  are  guarded  by  severe  sentries,  —  the 
north  gate  by  the  Japanese,  the  south  by 
Americans. 

It  is  by  the  first  of  these  two  entrances  that  we 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      101 

are  authorized  to  pass  to-day,  and  the  group  of 
small  Japanese  soldiers  that  we  find  there  smile 
upon  us  in  welcome ;  but  the  austere  gate  —  dark 
red  with  gilded  locks  and  hinges,  representing  the 
heads  of  monsters  —  is  closed  from  within  and 
resists  their  efforts.  The  use  of  centuries  has 
warped  the  enormous  doors  so  that  through  the 
crack  one  can  see  boards  fastened  on  to  the  inside 
to  prevent  their  opening,  and  persons  running 
about  announcing  in  flute-like  voices  that  they 
have  received  no  orders. 

We  threaten  to  burn  the  doors,  to  climb  over 
them,  to  shoot  through  the  opening;  all  sorts  of 
things  which  we  have  no  intention  of  doing,  but 
which  frighten  the  eunuchs  and  put  them  to  flight. 

No  one  is  left  to  answer  us.  What  are  we  to 
do?  We  are  freezing  our  feet  by  this  cold  wall; 
the  moat,  full  of  dead  reeds,  exhales  dampness, 
and  the  wind  continues  to  blow. 

The  kindly  Japanese,  however,  send  some  of 
their  strongest  men  —  who  depart  on  a  keen  run 
—  to  the  other  gate,  some  four  kilometres  around. 
They  light  a  fire  for  us  out  of  cedar  branches  and 
painted  woodwork,  where  we  take  turns  warming 
our  hands  while  we  wait;  we  amuse  ourselves  by 
picking  up  here  and  there  old  feathered  arrows 
thrown  by  prince  or  emperor  from  the  top  of  the 


102     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

walls.  After  an  hour's  patient  waiting,  noise  and 
voices  are  heard  behind  the  silent  gate;  it  is  our 
envoy  inside  cuffing  the  eunuchs. 

Suddenly   the  boards   creak   and   fall  and   the 
doors  open  wide  before  us. 


Ill 

THE  ABANDONED  ROOM 

THERE  is  a  faint  odor  of  tea  in  the  dark  room, 
an  odor  of  I  know  not  what  beside,  —  of  dried 
flowers  and  old  silks. 

There  is  no  way  of  getting  more  light  in  this 
curious  room,  which  opens  into  a  big  gloomy 
salon,  for  its  windows  receive  only  half-light  be- 
cause of  the  rice  paper  in  all  the  panes ;  they  open 
onto  a  yard  that  is  no  doubt  surrounded  by  triple 
walls.  The  alcove-bed,  large  and  low,  which 
seems  to  be  set  into  an  inner  wall  thick  as  a 
rampart,  has  silk  curtains  and  a  cover  of  dark 
blue,  —  the  color  of  the  sky  at  night.  There  are 
no  seats,  indeed  there  would  scarcely  be  room  for 
any;  neither  are  there  any  books,  nor  could  one 
very  well  see  to  read.  On  the  dark  wooden  chests 
which  serve  as  tables,  stand  melancholy  bibelots  in 
glass  cases;  small  vases  of  bronze  or  of  jade  con- 
taining very  stiff  artificial  bouquets,  with  petals 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      103 

made  of  mother-of-pearl  and  ivory.  A  thick  layer 
of  dust  over  everything  shows  that  the  room  is 
not  occupied. 

At  first  sight  there  is  nothing  to  mark  the  place 
or  the  time,  — -,  unless,  possibly,  the  fineness  of  the 
ebony  carving  of  the  upper  part  of  the  bed  reveals 
the  patience  of  the  Chinese.  Everything  is  sombre 
and  gloomy,  with  straight,  austere  lines. 

Where  are  we,  then,  in  what  obscure,  closed, 
clandestine  dwelling? 

Has  some  one  lived  here  in  our  time  or  was  it 
in  the  distant  past? 

How  many  hours  —  or  how  many  centuries  — 
has  he  been  gone,  and  who  could  he  have  been, 
the  occupant  of  the  abandoned  room? 

Some  sad  dreamer  evidently,  to  have  chosen 
this  shadowy  retreat;  some  one  very  refined,  to 
have  left  behind  him  this  distinguished  fragrance, 
and  very  weary,  to  have  been  pleased  with  this 
dull  simplicity  and  this  eternal  twilight. 

One  feels  stifled  by  the  smallness  of  the  win- 
dows, whose  panes  are  veiled  with  silky  paper, 
and  which  never  can  be  opened  to  admit  light  or 
air  because  they  are  sealed  into  the  wall.  And 
besides,  you  recall  the  weary  way  you  must  take 
to  get  here,  and  the  obstacles  you  encounter,  and 
that  disturbs  you. 

First,  there  is  the  big  black  Babylonian  wall, 


io4     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

the  superhuman  ramparts  of  a  city  more  than  ten 
leagues  around,  which  to-day  is  a  mass  of  ruins, 
half  empty,  and  strewn  with  corpses;  then  a 
second  wall,  painted  blood-red,  which  forms  a 
second  city  enclosed  in  the  first.  Then  a  third 
wall,  more  magnificent  still,  and  also  the  color  of 
blood;  this  is  the  wall  that  surrounds  the  great 
mysteries  of  the  place,  and  before  the  days  of 
the  war  and  the  fall  of  the  city  no  European  had 
ever  gone  beyond  it;  to-day  we  were  detained 
for  more  than  an  hour,  in  spite  of  passes,  signed 
and  countersigned;  through  the  keyhole  of  a 
great  gate  guarded  by  soldiers  and  barricaded 
from  within,  we  were  compelled  to  threaten  and 
argue  at  length  with  the  guards  inside,  who  sought 
to  hide  and  to  escape.  These  gates  once  opened, 
another  wall  appeared,  separated  from  the  former 
one  by  a  road  going  all  the  way  around  the  en- 
closure; here  tattered  garments  were  scattered 
about,  and  dogs  were  playing  with  the  bones  of 
the  dead.  This  wall  was  of  the  same  red,  but  still 
more  splendid,  and  was  crowned  along  its  entire 
length  by  a  horned  ornamentation  and  by  mon- 
sters made  of  a  golden  yellow  faience.  When  we 
had  finally  passed  this  third  wall,  queer  old  beard- 
less persons  came  to  meet  us  with  distrustful  greet- 
ings, and  guided  us  through  a  maze  of  little  courts 
and  small  gardens,  walled  and  walled  again,  in 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      105 

which  old  trees  were  growing  amongst  rock-work 
and  jars.  All  of  it  was  separate,  concealed,  dis- 
tressing; all  of  it  protected  and  peopled  by  mon- 
sters and  chimaeras  in  bronze  or  marble,  by  a 
thousand  faces,  whose  grimaces  signified  ferocity 
and  hatred,  by  a  thousand  unknown  symbols. 
And  every  time  each  gate  in  the  red  walls  with 
the  yellow  faience  tops  closed  behind  us,  as  in 
horrible  dreams  the  doors  of  a  series  of  passage- 
ways close  upon  one,  nevermore  to  permit  one  to 
go  out. 

Now,  after  our  long  journey  which  seems  like 
a  nightmare,  we  feel,  as  we  look  at  the  anxious 
group  who  have  conducted  us,  walking  noiselessly 
on  their  paper  soles,  that  we  have  committed  some 
supreme  and  unheard-of  profanation  in  their  eyes, 
in  penetrating  to  this  modest  room;  they  stand 
there  in  the  doorway,  peering  obliquely  at  our 
every  gesture;  the  crafty  eunuchs  in  silken  robes, 
and  the  thin  mandarins,  wearing  along  with  the 
red  button  of  their  headdresses,  the  melancholy 
raven's  quill.  They  were  compelled  to  yield,  they 
did  not  wish  to;  they  tried  by  every  ruse  to  lead 
us  to  some  other  part  of  the  immense  labyrinth  of 
this  palace  of  Heliogabalus ;  to  interest  us  in  the 
luxurious  salons  farther  on,  in  the  great  courts, 
and  in  the  marble  balconies,  which  we  shall  see 
later;  in  a  whole  Versailles  some  distance  farther 


io6     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

on,  now  overgrown  by  weeds,  and  where  no  sound 
is  heard  but  the  song  of  the  crows. 

They  were  determined  we  should  not  come  here, 
and  it  was  by  observing  the  dilation  of  the  pupils 
of  their  frightened  eyes  that  we  guessed  which 
way  to  go. 

Who  lived  here,  then,  sequestered  behind  so 
many  walls,  —  walls  more  terrible  by  far  than 
those  of  our  western  prisons?  Who  could  he 
have  been,  the  man  who  slept  in  this  bed  under 
these  silken  covers  of  nocturnal  blue,  and  in  his 
times  of  revery,  at  nightfall  or  at  dawn,  on  glacial 
winter  days,  was  obliged  to  contemplate  these  pen- 
sive little  bouquets  under  glass,  ranged  so  sym- 
metrically along  the  black  chests? 

It  was  he,  the  invisible  Emperor,  Son  of 
Heaven,  childish  and  feeble;  he  whose  empire 
is  vaster  than  all  Europe,  and  who  reigns  like  a 
vague  phantom  over  four  or  five  hundred  millions 
of  subjects. 

It  is  the  same  person  in  whose  veins  the  vigor 
of  half-deified  ancestors  is  exhausted,  who  has  too 
long  remained  inactive,  concealed  in  this  palace 
more  sacred  than  a  temple ;  the  same  who  neglects 
and  envelops-  in  twilight  the  diminishing  place 
where  he  is  pleased  to  live.  The  immense  setting 
in  which  former  emperors  lived  frightens  him  and 
he  abandons  it  all;  grass  and  brushwood  grow 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      107 

on  the  majestic  marble  railings  and  in  the  grand 
courtyards;  crows  and  pigeons  by  the  hundreds 
make  their  nests  in  the  gilded  vaults  of  the  throne 
room,  covering  with  dirt  and  dung  the  rich  and 
curious  rugs  left  there  to  be  ruined.  This  invio- 
lable palace,  a  league  in  circumference,  which  no 
foreigner  has  ever  seen,  of  which  one  can  learn 
nothing,  guess  nothing,  has  in  store  for  Euro- 
peans who  enter  it  for  the  first  time  the  surprise 
of  mournful  dilapidation  and  the  silence  of  a  tomb. 

The  pale  Emperor  never  occupied  the  throne 
rooms.  No,  what  suited  him  was  the  quarter 
where  the  small  gardens  were,  and  the  enclosed 
yards,  the  quaint  quarter  where  the  eunuchs  tried 
to  prevent  our  going.  The  alcove-bed  in  its  deep 
recess,  with  its  curtains  like  the  blue  of  night,  in- 
dicates fear. 

The  small  private  apartments  behind  this 
gloomy  chamber  extend  like  subterranean  pas- 
sages into  still  deeper  shadows;  ebony  is  the  pre- 
vailing wood;  everything  is  intentionally  sombre, 
even  the  mournful  mummified  bouquets  under 
their  glass  cases.  There  is  a  soft-toned  piano 
which  the  young  Emperor  was  learning  to  play, 
in  spite  of  his  long,  brittle  nails;  a  harmonium, 
and  a  big  music-box  that  gives  Chinese  airs  with 
a  tone  that  seems  to  come  from  beneath  the  waters 
of  a  lake. 


io8     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

Beyond  this  comes  what  was  doubtless  his  most 
cherished  retreat,  —  it  is  narrow  and  low  like  the 
cabin  of  a  ship,  and  exhales  the  fine  odor  of  tea 
and  dried  rose-leaves. 

There,  in  front  of  a  small  airhole  covered  with 
rice  paper,  through  which  filters  a  little  sombre 
light,  lies  a  mattress,  covered  with  imperial  golden- 
yellow  silk,  which  seems  to  retain  the  imprint  of 
a  body  habitually  extended  upon  it.  A  few  books, 
a  few  private  papers,  are  scattered  about.  Fas- 
tened to  the  wall  are  two  or  three  unimportant 
pictures,  not  even  framed,  representing  colorless 
roses,  and  written  in  Chinese  characters  under- 
neath are  the  last  orders  of  the  physician  for  this 
chronic  invalid. 

What  was  the  real  character  of  this  •  dreamer, 
who  shall  ever  say?  What  distorted  views  of 
life  had  been  bequeathed  to  him  of  the  things  of 
this  world  and  of  the  world  beyond?  What  do 
all  these  gruesome  symbols  signify  to  him?  The 
emperors,  the  demigods,  from  whom  he  descends, 
made  old  Asia  tremble ;  tributary  sovereigns  came 
from  great  distances  to  prostrate  themselves,  fill- 
ing this  place  with  banners  and  processions  more 
magnificent  than  our  imaginations  can  picture; 
within  these  same  walls,  so  silent  to-day,  how  and 
under  what  passing  phantasmagoric  aspects  did 
he  retain  the  stamp  of  the  wonderful  past? 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      109 

And  what  confusion  must  have  entered  his  un- 
fathomable little  brain  when  the  unprecedented  act 
was  accomplished,  and  events  occurred  which  he 
never  in  his  wildest  fears  could  have  anticipated! 
His  palace,  with  its  triple  walls,  violated  to  its 
most  secret  recesses;  he,  the  Son  of  Heaven,  torn 
from  the  dwelling  where  twenty  generations  of 
his  ancestors  had  lived  inaccessible;  obliged  to 
flee,  and  in  his  flight  to  permit  himself  to  be 
seen,  to  act  in  the  light  of  day  like  other  men, 
perhaps  even  to  implore  and  to  wait! 

Just  as  we  are  leaving  the  abandoned  room 
our  orderlies,  who  purposely  remained  behind, 
laughingly  throw  themselves  on  the  bed  with  the 
nocturnal  blue  curtains,  and  I  hear  one  of  them 
remark  gaily  in  an  aside  and  with  a  Gascon  ac- 
cent :  "  Now,  old  fellow,  we  can  say  that  we  have 
lain  on  the  bed  of  the  Emperor  of  China." 


IV 

MONDAY,  October  22. 

CHINESE  workmen,  —  amongst  whom  we  are 
warned  that  there  are  spies  and  Boxers,  —  who 
look  after  the  fires  in  the  two  furnaces  in  our 
palace,  have  kept  us  almost  too  warm  all  night. 
When  we  get  up  there  is,  as  there  was  yesterday, 


no    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

another  illusion  of  summer  on  our  light  verandah 
with  the  green  columns  painted  with  pink  lotus 
flowers.  An  almost  burning  sun  is  rising  and 
shining  upon  the  ghostly  pilgrimage  which  I  am 
about  to  make  on  horseback,  toward  the  west,  out- 
side the  Tartar  City,  and  through  the  ashy,  silent, 
ruined  suburbs. 

In  this  direction  there  were,  scattered  through 
the  dusty  country,  Christian  cemeteries  which  even 
in  1860  had  never  been  violated  by  the  yellow 
race.  But  this  time  they  furiously  attacked  the 
dead,  and  left  chaos  and  abomination  behind  them. 
The  oldest  remains,  those  of  missionaries  who  had 
been  sleeping  there  for  three  centuries,  were  dis- 
interred, crushed,  piled  up  and  set  on  fire  in  order 
to  destroy,  according  to  Chinese  beliefs,  whatever 
might  still  be  left  of  their  souls.  One  must  be 
somewhat  acquainted  with  the  ideas  of  the  country 
in  order  to  understand  the  enormity  of  this  su- 
preme insult  to  all  our  Occidental  races. 

The  cemetery  of  the  Jesuit  Fathers  was  singu- 
larly splendid.  They  were  formerly  very  powerful 
with  the  Celestial  Emperors,  and  borrowed  for 
their  own  tombs  the  funereal  emblems  of  the  princes 
of  China.  The  ground  is  literally  strewn  now 
with  big  marble  dragons  and  tortoises,  and  with 
tall  stele  with  chimaeras  coiled  about  them;  all 
these  carvings  have  been  thrown  down  and 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      in 

smashed;  the  heavy  stones  of  the  vaults  have 
been  broken  also,  and  the  ground  thoroughly 
overturned. 

A  more  modest  enclosure,  not  far  away,  has 
for  a  long  time  been  the  burial-place  for  the  Euro- 
pean legations.  It  has  undergone  the  same  treat- 
ment as  the  beautiful  cemetery  of  the  Jesuits.  The 
Chinese  have  ransacked  the  graves,  destroyed  the 
bodies,  and  even  violated  the  coffins  of  little  chil- 
dren. Some  few  human  bones  are  still  lying  on 
the  ground,  while  the  crosses  that  marked  the 
graves  are  placed  upside  down.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  poignantly  affecting  sights  that  ever  met  my 
eyes. 

Some  good  Sisters  who  lived  near  by  kept  a 
school  for  Chinese  children;  of  their  houses 
nothing  is  left  but  a  pile  of  bricks  and  ashes,  even 
the  trees  have  been  uprooted  and  stuck  back  in  the 
ground  head  foremost. 

This  is  their  story :  — 

They  were  alone  one  night  when  about  a  thou- 
sand Boxers  came  along,  shouting  their  death  cries 
and  playing  gongs.  The  Sisters  began  to  pray  in 
their  chapel  as  they  awaited  death.  However,  the 
noise  died  away,  and  when  day  broke  no  one  was 
in  sight,  so  they  escaped  to  Pekin  and  took  shel- 
ter with  the  bishop,  taking  their  frightened  little 
pupils  with  them.  When  the  Boxers  were  asked 


ii2     THE    LAST    DAYS    OF    PEKIN 

later  why  they  had  not  entered  and  killed  the 
Sisters,  they  replied :  "  Because  we  saw  soldiers' 
heads  and  guns  all  around  the  convent  walls."  So 
the  Sisters  owed  their  lives  to  this  hallucination 
of  their  executioners. 

The  wells  in  the  deserted  gardens  fill  the  air 
to-day  with  odors  of  the  dead.  There  were  three 
large  cisterns  which  furnished  a  water  so  pure 
that  they  sent  all  the  way  from  the  legations  to  get 
it.  The  Boxers  filled  these  wells  up  to  the  brim 
with  the  mutilated  bodies  of  little  boys  from  the 
Brothers'  school  and  from  Christian  families  in 
the  neighborhood.  Dogs  came  to  eat  from  the 
horrible  pile  which  came  up  to  the  level  of  the 
ground ;  but  they  had  their  fill,  and  so  the  bodies 
were  left,  and  have  been  so  preserved  by  the  cold 
and  dryness  that  the  marks  of  torture  upon  them 
may  still  be  seen.  One  poor  thigh  has  been  slashed 
in  stripes  after  the  manner  in  which  bakers  some- 
times mark  their  loaves  of  bread,  another  poor 
hand  is  without  nails.  And  here  is  a  woman  from 
whom  one  of  the  private  parts  of  her  body  has 
been  cut  and  placed  in  her  mouth,  where  it  was  left 
by  the  dogs  between  her  gaping  jaws.  The  bodies 
are  covered  with  what  looks  like  salt,  but  which 
proves  to  be  white  frost,  which  in  shady  places 
never  melts  here.  Yet  there  is  enough  clear,  im- 
placable sunshine  to  bring  out  the  emaciation  and 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      113 

to  exaggerate  the  horrors  of  the  open  mouths,  their 
agonized  expressions,  and  the  rigidity  of  the  an- 
guished positions  of  the  dead. 

There  is  not  a  cloud  to-day,  but  a  pale  sky  which 
reflects  a  great  deal  of  light.  All  winter,  it  seems, 
it  is  much  the  same;  even  in  the  coldest  weather 
rains  and  snows  are  very  exceptional  in  Pekin. 

After  our  brief  soldiers'  breakfast,  served  on 
rare  china  in  the  long  gallery,  I  leave  the  Palace 
of  the  North  to  install  myself  in  the  kiosk  on  the 
opposite  shore,  which  I  selected  yesterday,  and  to 
begin  my  work.  It  is  about  two  o'clock;  a  sum- 
mer's sun  shines  on  my  solitary  path,  on  the  white- 
ness of  the  Marble  Bridge,  on  the  mud  of  the 
Lake,  and  on  the  bodies  that  sleep  amongst  the 
frosted  lotus  leaves. 

The  guards  at  the  entrance  to  the  Rotunda 
Palace  open  and  close  behind  me  the  red  lacquered 
doors.  I  mount  the  inclined  plane  leading  to  the 
esplanade,  and  here  I  am  alone,  much  alone,  in  the 
silence  of  my  lofty  garden  and  my  strange  palace. 

In  order  to  reach  my  work-room,  I  have  to  go 
along  narrow  passageways  between  old  trees  and 
the  most  unnatural  rockwork.  The  kiosk  is 
flooded  with  light,  the  beautiful  sunshine  falls  on 
my  table  and  on  my  black  seats  with  their  cushions 
of  golden  yellow;  the  beautiful  melancholy  Oc- 
tober sunshine  illumines  and  warms  my  chosen 

8 


n4     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

retreat,  where  the  Empress,  it  seems,  loved  to 
come  and  sit  and  watch  from  this  high  point  her 
lake  all  pink  with  flowers. 

The  last  butterflies  and  the  last  wasps,  their 
lives  prolonged  by  this  hot-house  warmth,  beat 
their  wings  against  the  window-panes.  The  great 
imperial  lake  is  spread  out  before  us,  spanned  by 
the  Marble  Bridge;  venerable  trees  form  a  girdle 
around  shores  out  of  which  rise  the  fanciful  roofs 
of  palaces  and  pagodas,  —  roofs  that  are  one  mar- 
vellous mass  of  faience.  As  in  the  landscapes 
painted  on  Chinese  fans,  there  are  groups  of  tiny 
rocks  in  the  foreground,  and  small  enamelled  mon- 
sters from  a  neighboring  kiosk,  while  in  the  middle 
distance  there  are  knotted  branches  which  have 
fallen  from  some  old  cedar. 

I  am  alone,  entirely  and  deliciously  alone,  high 
up  in  an  inaccessible  spot  whose  approaches  are 
guarded  by  sentinels.  There  is  the  occasional  cry 
of  a  crow  or  the  gallop  of  a  horse  down  below,  at 
the  foot  of  the  rampart  whereon  my  frail  habita- 
tion rests,  or  the  passing  of  an  occasional  mes- 
senger. Otherwise  nothing;  not  a  single  sound 
near  enough  to  trouble  the  sunny  quiet  of  my 
retreat.  No  surprise  is  possible,  no  visitor. 

I  have  been  working  for  an  hour,  when  a  light 
rustling  behind  me  from  the  direction  of  the  en- 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      115 

trance  gives  me  the  feeling  of  some  discreet  and 
agreeable  presence.  I  turn  round,  and  there  is  a 
cat  who  has  stopped  short  with  one  foot  in  the  air, 
hesitating  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  eye,  as 
if  to  ask :  "  Who  are  you,  and  what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

I  call  him  quietly,  he  replies  with  a  plaintive 
miaul ;  and  I,  always  tactful  with  cats,  go  on  with 
my  writing,  knowing  very  well  that  in  a  first  inter- 
view one  must  not  be  too  insistent. 

He  is  a  very  pretty  cat,  yellow  and  white, 
with  the  distinguished  and  elegant  air  of  a  grand 
seignior.  A  moment  later  and  he  is  rubbing  against 
my  leg ;  so  then  I  put  my  hand  slowly  down  on  the 
small,  velvety  head,  which,  after  a  sudden  start, 
permits  my  caresses  and  abandons  itself  to  them. 
It  is  over;  the  acquaintance  is  made.  He  is  evi- 
dently a  cat  accustomed  to  petting,  probably  an 
intimate  of  the  Empress.  To-morrow  and  every 
day  I  shall  beg  my  orderly  to  bring  him  a  cold 
luncheon  from  my  rations. 

The  illusion  of  summer  ends  with  the  day.  The 
sun  sets  big  and  red  behind  the  Lake  of  the 
Lotus,  all  at  once  taking  on  a  sad,  wintry  look ;  at 
the  same  time  a  chill  comes  over  all  things,  and 
the  empty  palace  grows  suddenly  gloomy.  For  the 
first  time  that  day  I  hear  footsteps  approaching, 


n6     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

resounding  in  the  silence  on  the  pavement  of  the 
esplanade.  My  servants,  Osman  and  Renaud,  are 
coming  for  me  according  to  instructions ;  they  are 
the  only  human  beings  for  whom  the  gate  of  the 
walls  below  has  orders  to  open. 

It  is  icy  cold  as  we  cross  the  Marble  Bridge  in 
the  twilight  to  return  to  our  home,  and  the  mois- 
ture is  gathering  in  clouds  over  the  lake,  as  it  does 
every  night. 

After  supper  we  go  on  a  man  hunt  in  the  dark, 
through  the  courts  and  rooms  of  the  place.  On 
the  preceding  nights  we  had  observed  through  the 
transparent  window-panes  disturbing  little  lights 
which  were  promptly  extinguished  if  we  made  any 
noise.  These  lights  moved  up  and  down  the  un- 
inhabited galleries,  some  distance  away,  like  fire- 
flies. To-night's  effort  brings  about  the  capture 
of  three  unknown  men  who  with  cutlasses  and 
dark  lanterns  have  climbed  over  the  walls  to  pilfer 
in  the  imperial  reserves.  There  are  two  Chinese 
and  one  European,  a  soldier  of  one  of  the  allied 
nations.  Not  to  make  too  much  ado  over  it,  we 
content  ourselves  with  putting  them  out  after  cud- 
gelling them  well  and  boxing  their  ears. 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      117 

V 

TUESDAY,  October  23. 

LAST  night  there  was  a  still  harder  frost,  which 
covered  the  ground  in  the  courtyard  with  small 
white  crystals.  This  we  discover  during  our  regu- 
lar morning  exploration  of  the  galleries  and  de- 
pendencies of  the  palace. 

The  former  lodgings  of  the  begging  missionaries 
and  the  schoolrooms  are  overflowing  with  pack- 
ing boxes  containing  reserve  supplies  of  silk  and 
tea.  There  is  also  a  heap  of  old  bronzes,  vases, 
and  incense-burners  piled  up  to  the  height  of  a 
man. 

But  the  church  itself  is  the  most  extraordinary 
mine,  —  a  regular  Ali  Baba's  cave,  quite  rilled.  In 
addition  to  antiquities  brought  from  the  Violet 
City,  the  Empress  had  put  there  all  the  presents 
she  received  two  years  ago  for  her  Jubilee.  (And 
the  line  of  mandarins  who  on  that  occasion  brought 
presents  to  their  sovereign  was  a  league  long  and 
lasted  an  entire  day.) 

In  the  nave  and  side  aisles  the  boxes  and  cases 
are  piled  to  half  the  height  of  the  columns.  In 
spite  of  the  confusion,  in  spite  of  the  hasty  pil- 
laging of  those  who  have  preceded  us,  —  Chinese, 
Japanese,  German,  and  Russian  soldiers,  —  a  mar- 
vellous collection  remains.  The  most  enormous  of 


n8     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

the  chests,  —  those  beneath,  —  protected  by  their 
weight  and  by  the  mass  of  things  on  top  of  them, 
have  not  even  been  opened.  The  first  to  go  were 
the  innumerable  smaller  articles  on  top,  most  of 
them  enclosed  in  glass  cases  or  in  yellow  silk  cover- 
ings, such  as  bunches  of  artificial  flowers  in  agate, 
jade,  coral,  or  lapis  lazuli,  pagodas  and  blue  land- 
scapes made  of  the  feathers  of  the  kingfisher  mar- 
vellously utilized.  Works  of  Chinese  patience 
which  have  cost  years  of  toil  are  now  broken  in 
bits  by  the  stroke  of  a  bayonet,  while  the  glass 
which  protected  them  is  crackling  under  one's  feet 
on  the  floor. 

Imperial  robes  of  heavy  silk  brocaded  with  gold 
dragons  lie  on  the  ground  among  cases  of  every 
description.  We  walk  over  them,  we  walk  over 
carved  ivories,  over  pearls  and  embroideries  galore. 
There  are  bronzes  a  thousand  years  old,  from  the 
Empress's  collection ;  there  are  screens  which  seem 
to  have  been  carved  and  embroidered  by  super- 
natural beings,  there  are  antique  vases,  cloisonne, 
crackle  ware,  lacquers.  Certain  of  the  boxes  un- 
derneath, bearing  the  names  of  emperors  who  died 
a  century  ago,  contain  presents  sent  them  from 
distant  provinces,  which  no  one  has  ever  taken  the 
trouble  to  open.  The  sacristy  of  this  astonishing 
cathedral  contains  in  a  series  of  pastboard  boxes, 
all  the  sumptuous  costumes  for  the  actors  in  the 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      119 

Empress's  theatre,  with  many  fashionable  head- 
dresses of  former  times. 

This  church,  so  full  of  pagan  riches,  has  kept 
its  organ  intact,  although  it  has  been  silent  for 
thirty  years.  My  comrade  mounts  with  me  to  the 
gallery  to  try  the  effect  of  some  hymns  of  Bach 
and  Handel  under  these  vaultings,  while  the  Afri- 
can chasseurs,  up  to  their  knees  in  ivories,  silks, 
and  court  costumes,  continue  their  task  of  clearing 
things  out  below. 

About  ten  o'clock  this  morning  I  cross  over  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  Violet  City  to  visit  the 
Palace  of  Ancestors,  which  is  in  charge  of  our 
marines.  This  was  the  Holy  of  Holies,  the  Pan- 
theon of  dead  emperors,  a  temple  which  was  never 
even  approached. 

It  is  in  a  particularly  shady  spot;  in  front  of 
the  entrance  gate  are  light  but  ornate  triumphal 
arches  of  green,  red,  and  gold  lacquer,  resting  on 
frail  supports,  and  mingling  with  the  sombre 
branches  of  the  trees.  Enormous  cedars  and  cy- 
presses, twisted  by  age,  shelter  the  marble  monsters 
which  crouch  at  the  threshold  and  have  given  them 
a  greenish  hue. 

Passing  the  first  enclosure,  we  naturally  find  a 
second.  The  courts,  always  shaded  by  old  trees, 
succeed  one  another  in  solemn  magnificence.  They 


120     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

are  paved  with  large  stones,  between  which  grows 
a  weed  common  in  cemeteries;  each  one  of  the 
cedars  and  cypresses  which  cjast  its  shadow  here 
is  surrounded  by  a  marble  circle  and  seems  to 
spring  from  a  bed  of  carving.  A  thick  layer  of 
thousands  of  pine  needles  continually  falling  from 
the  branches,  covers  everything.  Gigantic  incense- 
burners  of  dull  bronze,  centuries  old,  rest  on  pedes- 
tals bearing  emblems  of  death. 

Everything  here  has  an  unprecedented  stamp  of 
antiquity  and  mystery.  It  is  a  unique  place, 
haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  the  Chinese  emperors. 

On  each  side  are  secondary  temples,  whose  walls 
of  lacquer  and  gold  have  taken  on  with  time  the 
shades  of  old  Cordova  leather.  They  contain 
broken  catafalques,  emblems  and  objects  pertaining 
to  certain  funeral  rites. 

It  is  all  incomprehensible  and  terrible ;  one  feels 
profoundly  incapable  of  grasping  the  meaning  of 
these  forms  and  symbols. 

At  length,  in  the  last  court  on  a  white  marble 
terrace  guarded  by  bronze  roes,  the  Ancestors' 
Palace  lifts  its  tarnished  gold  fagade,  surmounted 
by  a  roof  of  yellow  lacquer. 

It  consists  of  one  immense  room,  grand  and 
gloomy,  all  in  faded  gold  turning  to  coppery  red. 
At  the  rear  is  a  row  of  nine  mysterious  double 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      121 

doors,  which  are  sealed  with  wax.  In  the  centre 
are  the  tables  on  which  the  repasts  for  the  ances- 
tral shades  were  placed,  and  where,  on  the  day  the 
Yellow  City  was  taken,  our  hungry  soldiers  re- 
joiced to  find  an  unexpected  meal  set  forth.  At 
each  extremity  of  this  lofty  room  chimes  and 
stringed  instruments  await  the  hour,  which  may 
never  come  again,  when  they  shall  make  music 
for  the  Shades.  There  are  long,  horizontal 
zithers,  grave  in  tone,  which  are  supported  by 
golden  monsters  with  closed  eyes;  gigantic 
chimes,  one  of  bells,  the  others  of  marble  slabs 
and  jade,  suspended  by  gold  chains  and  sur- 
mounted by  great  fantastic  beasts  spreading  their 
golden  wings  toward  the  dusky  gold  ceiling. 

There  are  also  lacquered  cupboards  as  big  as 
houses,  containing  collections  of  old  paintings, 
rolled  on  ebony  or  ivory  sticks,  and  wrapped  in 
imperial  silks. 

Some  of  these  are  marvellous,  and  are  a  revela- 
tion of  Chinese  art  of  which  we  of  the  Occident 
have  no  conception,  —  an  art  at  least  equal  to 
our  own,  though  profoundly  unlike  it.  Portraits 
of  emperors  in  silent  revery,  or  hunting  in  the 
forest,  portray  wild  places  which  give  one  a  long- 
ing for  primitive  nature,  for  the  unspoiled  world 
of  rocks  and  trees.  Portraits  of  dead  empresses 
painted  in  water-colors  on  faded  silks  recall  the 


122     THE    LAST    DAYS  OF   PEKIN 

candid  grace  of  the  Italian  Primitives,  —  por- 
traits so  pale,  so  colorless,  as  to  seem  like  fleeting 
reflections  of  persons,  yet  showing  a  perfection 
of  modelling  attained  with  absolute  simplicity, 
and  with  a  look  of  concentration  in  the  eye  that 
makes  you  feel  the  likeness  and  enables  you  for 
one  strange  moment  to  live  face  to  face  with  these 
princesses  of  the  past  who  have  slept  for  centuries 
in  this  splendid  mausoleum.  All  these  paintings 
were  sacred,  never  seen  or  even  suspected  to  exist 
by  Europeans. 

Other  rolls,  which  when  spread  out  on  the 
pavement  are  six  or  eight  metres  long,  represent 
processions,  receptions  at  court,  or  lines  of  am- 
bassadors; cavaliers,  armies,  banners;  men  of  all 
kinds  by  the  thousands,  whose  dress,  embroid- 
eries, and  arms,  suggest  that  one  should  look  at 
them  with  a  magnifying  glass.  The  whole  his- 
tory of  Chinese  costume  and  ceremonial  is  con- 
tained in  these  precious  miniatures.  We  even  find 
here  the  reception,  by  I  know  not  what  emperor, 
of  an  ambassador  from  Louis  XIV. ;  small  per- 
sons with  very  French  faces  are  represented  as 
though  for  exhibition  at  Versailles,  with  wigs 
after  the  fashion  of  Roi-Soleil. 

The  nine  magnificent  sealed  doors  at  the  back 
of  the  temple,  shut  off  the  altars  of  nine  emperors. 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      123 

They  were  good  enough  to  break  the  red  wax 
seals  for  me  and  to  destroy  the  fastenings  at  one 
of  the  forbidden  entrances,  so  that  I  might  pene- 
trate into  one  of  the  sacred  sanctuaries,  —  that  of 
the  great  Emperor  Kouang-Lu,  who  was  in  his 
glory  at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
A  serjeant  has  orders  to  accompany  me  in  this 
profanation,  holding  in  his  hand  a  lighted  candle, 
which  seems  to  burn  reluctantly  here  in  the  light 
cold  air  of  the  tomb.  The  temple  itself  was  quite 
dark,  but  here  it  was  black  night  itself,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  dirt  and  cinders  had  been  thrown 
about;  the  dust  that  accumulates  so  endlessly  in 
Pekin  seems  a  sign  of  death  and  decay.  Passing 
from  daylight,  however  dim,  to  the  light  of  one 
small  candle  that  is  lost  in  the  shadows,  one  sees 
confusedly  at  first,  and  there  is  a  momentary  hesita- 
tion, especially  if  the  place  is  startling  in  itself.  I 
see  before  me  a  staircase  rising  to  a  sort  of  taber- 
nacle, which  seems  to  be  full  of  artistic  creations 
of  some  unknown  kind. 

At  both  right  and  left,  closed  by  complicated 
locks,  are  some  severe  chests  which  I  am  per- 
mitted to  examine.  In  their  compartments  and 
in  their  double  secret  bottoms  the  sovereign's  im- 
perial seals  have  been  concealed  by  the  hundreds, 
—  heavy  seals  of  onyx,  jade,  or  gold  struck  off 
for  every  occasion  of  his  life  and  in  commemora- 


i24     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

tion  of  all  the  acts  of  his  reign;  priceless  relics 
which  no  one  dared  touch  after  his  obsequies,  and 
which  have-  lain  there  for  twice  one  hundred  years. 

I  go  up  into  the  tabernacle  and  the  serjeant 
holds  his  candle  before  the  marvels  there,  —  jade 
sceptres  and  vases,  some  of  a  peculiar  and  ex- 
quisite workmanship  in  both  dark  and  light  jade, 
in  cloisonne  on  gold,  or  in  plain  solid  gold.  Be- 
hind the  altar  in  an  obscure  position  a  grand  fig- 
ure which  I  had  not  perceived  followed  me  with 
an  oblique  look  that  reached  me  through  two  cur- 
tains of  yellow  imperial  silk,  whose  folds  were 
black  with  dust.  It  is  a  pale  portrait  of  the  de- 
funct Emperor, — a  life-sized  portrait,  so  obscure, 
as  seen  by  the  light  of  our  single  wretched  candle, 
as  to  seem  like  the  reflection  of  a  ghost  in  a  tar- 
nished mirror.  What  a  nameless  sacrilege  would 
our  opening  the  chests  where  his  treasures  were 
hidden  seem  to  this  dead  man,  nay,  even  our  pres- 
ence in  this  most  impenetrable  of  all  places  in  an 
impenetrable  city! 

When  everything  is  carefully  closed  again,  when 
the  red  seals  have  been  put  back  in  place  and  the 
pale  image  of  the  Emperor  returned  to  silence,  to 
its  customary  shadows,  I  hasten  to  get  away  from 
the  tomblike  chill,  to  breathe  the  air  again,  to  seek 
on  the  terrace  some  of  the  autumn  sunshine  which 
filters  through  the  cedar  branches. 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      125 

I  am  going  to  take  breakfast  to-day  with  the 
French  officers  at  the  extreme  north  end  of  the 
imperial  wood,  at  the  Temple  of  the  Silkworm. 
This,  too,  is  an  admirable  old  sanctuary,  preceded 
by  sumptuous  courts  with  marble  terraces  and 
bronze  vases.  This  Yellow  City  is  a  complete 
world  of  temples  and  palaces  set  in  green.  Up 
to  last  month  the  travellers  who  thought  they 
were  seeing  China,  and  to  whom  all  this  remained 
closed,  forbidden,  could  have  no  idea  of  the  mar- 
vellous city  opened  to  us  by  the  war. 

When  I  start  back  to  my  Palace  of  the  Ro- 
tunda, about  two  o'clock,  a  burning  sun  is  shin- 
ing on  the  dark  cedars  and  willows;  one  seeks 
shade  as  if  it  were  summer,  and  the  willows  are 
losing  many  of  their  leaves.  At  the  entrance  to 
the  Marble  Bridge,  not  far  from  my  gate,  the  two 
bodies  in  blue  gowns  which  lie  among  the  lotus 
are  bathed  in  an  ironical  splendor  of  light. 

After  the  soldiers  on  guard  have  closed  the  low 
postern  by  which  one  gains  access  to  my  high 
garden,  I  am  again  alone  in  the  silence  until  the 
sun's  rays,  falling  oblique  and  red  upon  my  writ- 
ing-table, announce  the  coming  of  the  melancholy 
evening. 

I  am  scarcely  seated  at  my  work  before  a 
friendly  head,  discreetly  rubbed  against  my  leg  to 


126     THE   LAST   DAYS  OF   PEKIN 

attract  my  attention,  announces  the  visit  of  the 
cat.  I  am  not  unprepared  for  this  visit,  for  I 
now  expect  it  every  day. 

An  hour  of  ideal  quiet  goes  by,  broken  only 
by  two  or  three  ravens'  cries.  Then  I  hear  the 
noise  of  cavalry  galloping  over  the  stone  pave- 
ments at  the  foot  of  my  wall;  it  proves  to  be 
Field-Marshal  von  Waldersee,  followed  by  an 
escort  of  soldiers  with  small  flags  at  the  tips  of 
their  spears.  He  is  returning  to  the  palace  where 
he  lives,  not  far  from  here,  one  of  the  most  sump- 
tuous of  all  the  residences  of  the  Empress.  My 
eyes  follow  the  cavalcade  as  it  crosses  the  Marble 
Bridge,  turns  to  the  left,  and  is  lost  behind  the 
trees.  Then  the  silence  returns,  absolute  as  before. 

From  time  to  time  I  go  out  to  walk  on  my  high 
terrace,  and  always  discover  there  something  new. 
There  are  enormous  tam-tams  under  my  cedars, 
with  which  to  call  upon  the  gods;  there  are  beds 
of  yellow  chrysanthemums  and  Indian-yellow 
carnations,  upon  which  the  frost  has  left  a  few 
flowers;  there  is  a  kind  of  dais  of  marble  and 
faience  supporting  an  object  quite  indefinite  at 
first  sight,  —  one  of  the  largest  blocks  of  jade  in 
the  world,  cut  in  imitation  of  an  ocean  wave  with 
monsters  struggling  in  the  foam. 

I  visit  some  deserted  kiosks,  —  still  furnished 
with  ebony  thrones,  divans,  and  yellow  silk 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      127 

cushions, — which  seem  like  little  clandestine  love 
nests.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  beautiful  sov- 
ereign, passionate  still,  though  aging,  used  to 
isolate  herself  here  with  her  favorites  among  the 
imperial  silks  in  these  protecting  shadows. 

My  only  companion  in  my  palace  of  dreams 
to-day  is  the  big  alabaster  goddess  robed  in  gold, 
who  perpetually  smiles  upon  broken  vases  and 
withered  flowers;  her  temple,  where  the  sun 
never  enters,  is  always  cold  and  grows  dark  be- 
fore it  should. 

But  now  real  night  has  come,  and  I  begin  to 
feel  chilly.  The  sun,  which  in  France  is  at  its 
meridional  apogee,  is  sinking;  sinking  here,  a  big 
red  ball  without  light  or  heat,  going  down  behind 
the  Lake  of  the  Lotus  in  a  wintry  mist. 

The  chill  of  the  night  comes  on  suddenly,  giv- 
ing me  the  sensation  of  an  abrupt  descent  into  a 
cave  of  ice  and  a  furtive  little  feeling  of  anguish 
at  being  exiled  so  far  from  home. 

I  greet  my  two  servants  like  friends  when  they 
come  for  me,  bringing  a  cape  for  me  to  wear  on 
the  way  back  to  the  palace. 


128     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

VI 

WEDNESDAY,  October  24. 

THE  same  glorious  sunshine  in  gallery,  garden, 
and  wood.  Each  day  the  work  of  our  soldiers 
with  their  gangs  of  Chinese  laborers  goes  on  in 
the  nave  of  the  Cathedral ;  they  carefully  separate 
such  treasures  as  have  remained  intact,  or  nearly 
so,  from  what  is  irreparably  injured.  There  is  a 
continual  coming  and  going  across  our  court  of 
furniture  and  precious  bronzes  in  hand-barrows; 
all  that  is  taken  out  of  the  church  is  put  in  places 
not  at  present  needed  for  our  troops,  to  await  its 
final  transportation  to  the  Ancestors'  Palace,  where 
it  is  to  remain  under  lock  and  key. 

We  have  seen  so  many  of  these  magnificent 
things  that  we  are  satiated  and  worn  with  them. 
The  most  remarkable  discoveries  made  from  the 
depths  of  the  oldest  cases  have  ceased  to  astonish 
us;  there  is  nothing  now  that  we  want  for  the 
decoration  —  oh,  so  fleeting  —  of  our  apartments ; 
nothing  is  sufficiently  beautiful  for  our  Heliogaba- 
lean  fancies.  There  will  be  no  to-morrow,  for  the 
inventory  must  be  finished  within  a  few  days,  and 
then  our  long  galleries  will  be  parcelled  out  for 
officers'  rooms  and  offices. 

In  the  way  of  discoveries,  we  came  this  morn- 
ing upon  a  pile  of  bodies,  —  the  last  defenders  of 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     129 

the  Imperial  City,  who  fell  all  in  a  heap  and 
have  remained  in  positions  indicative  of  extreme 
agony.  The  crows  and  the  dogs  have  gone  down 
into  the  ditch  where  they  lie  and  have  devoured 
eyes,  chests,  and  intestines;  there  is  no  flesh  left 
on  their  bones,  and  their  red  spinal  columns  show 
through  their  ragged  raiment.  Shoes  are  left,  but 
no  hair;  Chinamen  have  evidently  descended  into 
the  deep  hole  with  the  dogs  and  the  crows,  and 
have  scalped  the  dead  in  order  to  make  false 
queues. 

To-day  I  leave  the  Palace  of  the  North  early 
and  for  all  day,  as  I  must  go  over  to  the  Euro- 
pean quarter  to  see  our  Minister  at  the  Spanish 
legation,  where  he  was  taken  in;  he  is  still  in 
bed,  but  convalescing  so  that  at  last  I  can  make  to 
him  the  communications  which  I  undertook  on  be- 
half of  the  admiral. 

For  four  days  I  have  not  been  outside  the  red 
walls  of  the  Imperial  City,  have  not  left  our  superb 
solitude.  So  when  I  find  myself  once  more  among 
the  ugly  gray  ruins  of  the  commonplace  streets  of 
the  Tartar  City,  in  everybody's  Pekin,  in  the  Pekin 
known  to  all  travellers,  I  appreciate  better  the 
unique  peculiarities  of  our  great  wood,  of  our  lake, 
and  of  all  our  forbidden  glories. 

However,  this  city  of  the  people  seems  less  for- 
9 


ijo    THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

lorn  than  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  in  the  wind 
and  snow.  The  people  are  beginning  to  return, 
as  I  have  been  told;  Pekin  is  being  re-populated, 
the  shops  are  opening,  houses  are  rebuilding,  and 
already  a  few  humble  and  entertaining  trades  have 
been  taken  up  along  the  streets,  on  tables,  under 
tents,  and  under  parasols.  The  warm  sunshine  of 
the  Chinese  autumn  is  the  friend  of  many  a  poor 
wretch  who  has  no  fire. 


VII 

THE  TEMPLE  OF   THE  LAMAS 

THE  Temple  of  the  Lamas,  the  oldest  sanctuary  in 
Pekin,  and  one  of  the  most  curious  in  the  world, 
contains  a  profusion  of  marvellous  work  of  the 
old  Chinese  gold  and  silver  smiths,  and  a  library 
of  inestimable  value. 

This  precious  temple  has  seldom  been  seen,  al- 
though it  has  been  in  existence  for  centuries. 
Before  this  year's  European  invasion,  access  to  it 
was  strictly  forbidden  to  "  outside  barbarians," 
and  even  since  the  Allies  have  had  possession  of 
Pekin,  very  few  have  ever  gone  there.  It  is  pro- 
tected by  its  location  in  an  angle  of  the  Tartar  wall 
in  quite  a  lifeless  part  of  the  city  whose  different 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      131 

quarters  are  dying  from  century  to  century  as  old 
trees  lose  their  branches  one  by  one. 

Going  there  to-day  on  a  pilgrimage  with  the 
members  of  the  French  legation,  we  find  that  we 
are  all  there  for  the  first  time. 

In  order  to  reach  it  we  first  cross  the  eastern 
market-place,  three  or  four  kilometres  through  a 
sunless  and  desolate  Pekin,  —  a  Pekin  that  bears 
the  marks  of  war  and  defeat,  and  where  things  are 
spread  out  for  sale  on  the  filth  and  ashes  of  the 
ground.  Some  matchless  objects  transmitted  by 
one  generation  of  mandarins  to  another  are  to 
be  found  among  the  rags  and  old  iron;  ancient 
palaces,  as  well  as  the  houses  of  the  poor,  have 
emptied  here  some  of  their  most  astonishing  con- 
tents; the  sordid  and  the  marvellous  lie  side  by 
side,  —  here  some  pestilential  rags,  there  a  bibelot 
three  thousand  years  old.  Along  the  walls  of  the 
houses  as  far  as  one  can  see,  the  cast-off  garments 
of  dead  men  and  women  are  hung.  It  is  a  place 
for  the  sale  of  extravagant  clothing  without  end, 
opulent  furs  from  Mongolia  stolen  from  the  rich, 
gay  costumes  of  a  courtesan,  or  magnificent  heavy 
silk  robes  which  belonged  to  great  ladies  who  have 
disappeared.  The  Chinese  populace,  who  have 
done  a  hundred  times  more  than  the  invaders 
in  the  way  of  pillage,  burning,  and  destruction  in 
Pekin,  the  uniformly  dirty  populace,  dressed  in 


THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

blue  cotton,  with  squinting,  evil  eyes,  swarm 
and  crawl  about,  eagerly  searching  and  raising  a 
perfect  cloud  of  microbes  and  dust.  Ignoble 
scoundrels  with  long  queues  circulate  amongst  the 
crowd,  offering  robes  of  ermine  or  blue-fox,  or 
admirable  sables  for  a  few  piasters,  in  their  eager- 
ness to  be  rid  of  stolen  goods. 

As  we  approach  the  object  of  our  journey  it 
grows  more  quiet;  the  busy,  crowded  streets  are 
gradually  succeeded  by  streets  that  have  perished 
of  old  age,  where  there  are  no  passers;  grass 
grows  on  the  thresholds  and  behind  abandoned 
walls;  we  see  trees  with  branches  knotted  like  the 
arms  of  the  aged. 

We  dismount  before  a  crumbling  entrance  which 
seems  to  open  into  a  park  which  might  be  a  ghosts' 
walk;  and  this  is  the  entrance  to  the  temple. 

What  sort  of  a  reception  shall  we  have  in  this 
mysterious  enclosure?  We  do  not  know;  and  at 
first  there  is  no  one  to  receive  us.  But  the  chief 
of  the  Lamas  soon  appears,  bowing,  with  his  keys, 
and  we  follow  him  across  the  funereal  park. 

With  a  violet  dress,  a  shaven  head,  and  a  face 
like  old  wax,  at  once  smiling,  frightened,  and  hos- 
tile, he  conducts  us  to  a  second  door,  opening  into 
an  immense  court  paved  with  white  stones,  com- 
pletely surrounded  by  the  curious  walls  of  the  first 


IN    THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      133 

buildings  of  the  temple.  Their  foundations  are 
massive,  their  roofs  curved  and  forked,  the  walls 
themselves  awe-inspiring  on  account  of  their  size, 
and  hermetically  sealed;  and  all  this  is  the  color 
of  ochre  and  rust,  with  golden  reflections  thrown 
on  the  high  roofs  by  the  evening  sun. 

The  court  is  deserted,  the  grass  grows  between 
the  paving-stones.  On  the  white  marble  balus- 
trades in  front  of  the  closed  doors  of  these  great 
temples  are  ranged  "  prayer-mills,"  which  are 
conical  thrones  made  of  bronze,  and  engraved  with 
secret  symbols,  which  the  priests  turn  and  turn 
while  murmuring  words  unintelligible  to  men  of 
our  day. 

In  old  Asia,  which  is  our  ancestor,  I  have  pene- 
trated to  the  heart  of  ancient  sanctuaries,  trem- 
bling meanwhile  with  indefinable  anguish  before 
symbols  whose  meaning  has  been  lost  for  centuries. 
This  kind  of  anguish  has  never  been  so  tinged 
with  melancholy  as  to-night,  standing  before  this 
row  of  silent  "  prayer-mills  "  in  the  cold,  the  wind, 
the  solitude,  the  dilapidation  of  this  court,  with  its 
white  grass-grown  pavement  and  mysterious  yel- 
low walls. 

Young  Lamas  appear  one  after  the  other  as 
noiselessly  as  shadows,  and  even  Lama  children, 
for  they  begin  to  instruct  them  quite  young  in  the 
old  rites  no  longer  understood  by  any  one. 


134     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

They  are  young,  but  they  have  no  appearance  of 
youth;  senility  is  upon  them  as  well  as  a  look  of 
I  know  not  what  of  mystical  dulness;  their  gaze 
seems  to  have  come  from  past  centuries  and  to 
have  lost  its  clearness  on  the  way.  Whether  from 
poverty  or  renunciation,  the  yellow  gowns  that 
cover  their  thin  bodies  are  faded  and  torn.  Their 
faces  and  their  dress,  as  well  as  their  religion  and 
their  sanctuary,  are  covered,  so  to  speak,  with  the 
ashes  of  time. 

They  are  glad  to  show  us  all  that  we  wish  to 
see  in  their  old  buildings ;  and  we  begin  with  the 
study-rooms,  where  so  many  generations  of  ob- 
scure and  unprogressive  priests  have  been  slowly 
formed. 

By  looking  closely,  it  is  plain  that  all  these  walls, 
now  the  color  of  the  oxydized  metal,  were  once 
covered  with  beautiful  designs  in  lacquer  and  gilt; 
to  harmonize  them  all  into  the  present  old-bronze 
shades  has  required  an  indefinite  succession  of 
burning  summers  and  glacial  winters,  together 
with  the  dust,  —  the  incessant  dust  blown  across 
Pekin  from  the  deserts  of  Mongolia. 

Their  study-rooms  are  very  dark,  —  anything 
else  would  have  surprised  us;  and  this  explains 
why  their  eyes  protrude  so  from  their  drooping  lids. 
Very  dark  these  rooms  are,  but  immense ;  sumptu- 
ous still,  in  spite  of  their  neglect,  and  conceived 


IN    THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      135 

on  a  grand  scale,  as  are  all  the  monuments  of  this 
city,  which  was  in  its  day  the  most  magnificent  in 
the  world.  The  high  ceilings  are  supported  by 
lacquered  columns.  There  are  small  seats  for  the 
students,  and  carved  desks  by  the  hundred,  all 
arranged  in  rows  and  worn  and  defaced  by  long 
use.  Gods  in  golden  robes  are  seated  in  the  cor- 
ners. The  wall  hangings  of  priceless  old  work 
represent  the  joys  of  Nirvana.  The  libraries  are 
overflowing  with  old  manuscripts,  some  in  the 
form  of  books,  and  others  in  great  rolls  wrapped 
up  in  colored  silks. 

We  are  shown  into  the  first  temple,  which,  as 
soon  as  the  door  is  opened,  shines  with  a  golden 
glow,  —  the  glow  of  .gold  used  discreetly,  and  with 
the  warm,  reddish  tones  which  lacquer  takes  on  in 
the  course  of  centuries.  There  are  three  golden 
altars,  on  which  are  enthroned  in  the  midst  of  a 
pleiad  of  small  golden  gods  three  great  ones,  with 
downcast  eyes.  The  straight  stems  of  the  gold 
flowers  standing  in  gold  vases  in  front  of  the 
altars  are  of  archaic  stiffness.  The  repetition,  the 
persistent  multiplication  of  the  same  objects,  atti- 
tudes, and  faces,  is  one  of  the  characteristics  of 
the  unchanging  art  of  pagodas.  As  is  the  case 
with  all  the  temples  of  the  past,  there  is  here  no 
opening  for  the  light ;  only  the  light  that  comes  in 
through  the  half-opened  doors  illumines  from  be- 


136     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

low  the  smile  of  the  great  seated  idols,  and  shows 
dimly  the  decorations  of  the  ceiling.  Nothing 
has  been  touched,  nothing  taken  away,  not  even 
the  admirable  cloisonne  vases  where  sticks  of  in- 
cense are  burning,  —  evidently  this  place  has  been 
ignored. 

Behind  this  temple,  behind  its  dusty  depend- 
encies, in  which  the  tortures  of  the  Buddhist  hell 
are  depicted,  the  Lamas  conduct  us  to  a  second 
court,  paved  in  white  stones,  similar  in  every  way 
to  the  first;  the  same  dilapidation,  the  same  soli- 
tude, the  same  coppery-yellow  walls. 

After  this  second  court  comes  another  temple, 
identical  with  the  first,  so  much  so  that  one  won- 
ders if  one  is  not  the  victim  of  an  illusion;  the 
same  figures,  the  same  smiles,  the  same  gold  bou- 
quets in  vases  of  gold,  —  a  patient  and  servile 
reproduction  of  the  same  magnificence. 

After  this  second  temple  there  is  a  third  court, 
and  a  third  temple  exactly  like  the  two  others. 
But  the  sun  is  now  lower,  and  lights  only  the  ex- 
treme tips  of  the  faience  roofs  and  the  thousands 
of  small  monsters  of  yellow  enamel  which  seem 
to  be  chasing  one  another  over  the  tiling.  The 
wind  increases,  and  we  shiver  with  cold.  The 
pigeons  in  the  carved  cornice  begin  to  seek  their 
nests,  and  the  silent  owls  wake  up  and  begin  to 
fly  about. 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      137 

As  we  expected,  this  last  temple  —  possibly  the 
oldest,  certainly  the  most  dilapidated  —  is  only  a 
repetition  of  the  other  two,  save  for  an  idol  in  the 
centre,  which,  instead  of  being  seated  and  life- 
sized,  is  colossal  and  standing.  The  gold  ceiling 
rises  from  about  half  the  height  of  the  statue  into 
a  cupola,  also  gilded,  which  forms  a  sort  of  box 
enclosing  the  upper  part  of  the  figure.  To  see  the 
face  one  must  go  close  to  the  altars  and  look  up 
between  the  rigid  flowers  and  the  incense-burners. 
It  then  looks  like  a  Titanic  mummy  in  its  case, 
with  a  downcast  look  that  makes  one  nervous.  But 
on  looking  steadily,  it  exercises  a  sort  of  spell; 
one  is  hypnotized  and  held  by  that  smile  so  im- 
partially bestowed  upon  all  this  entourage  of  dying 
splendor,  gold,  dust,  cold,  twilight,  ruins,  silence. 


VIII 

CONFUCIUS 

THERE  was  still  a  half-hour  of  sunshine  after  we 
left  the  ghostly  Lamas,  so  we  went  to  pay  a  call 
on  Confucius,  who  dwells  in  the  same  quarter,  — 
the  same  necropolis,  one  might  say,  —  in  an  aban- 
donment equally  depressing. 

The  big  worm-eaten  door  slips  off  its  hinges 


138     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

and  falls  down  as  we  attempt  to  enter,  and  an  owl 
who  was  asleep  there  takes  fright  and  flies  away. 
Behold  us  in  a  sort  of  mortuary  wood,  walking 
over  the  brown  autumn  grass. 

A  triumphal  arch  is  the  first  thing  we  come 
across,  built  to  pay  homage  to  some  great  Chinese 
thinker.  It  is  of  a  charming  design,  although 
very  peculiar,  with  three  little  bell-towers  of  yellow 
enamel,  which  crown  the  whole,  their  curved  roofs 
decorated  with  monsters  at  each  one  of  the  corners. 

It  stands  there  like  some  precious  bibelot  lost 
among  the  ruins.  Its  freshness  is  surprising  where 
all  else  is  so  dilapidated.  One  realizes  its  great  age 
from  the  archaic  nature  of  its  details;  but  it  is 
made  of  such  enduring  materials  that  the  wear  and 
tear  of  centuries  in  this  dry  climate  has  not  affected 
it.  The  base  is  white  marble,  the  rest  is  of  faience, 
—  faience  both  yellow  and  green,  with  lotus  leaves, 
clouds,  and  chimseras  in  bold  relief. 

Farther  on  is  a  large  rotunda  which  gives  evi- 
dence of  extreme. antiquity ;  this  appears  to  be  the 
color  of  dirt  or  ashes,  and  is  surrounded  by  a  moat 
where  the  lotus  and  the  reeds  are  dying.  This  is 
a  retreat  where  wise  men  may  come  to  meditate 
upon  the  vanities  of  life;  the  object  of  the  moat 
is  to  isolate  it  and  make  it  more  quiet. 

It  is  reached  by  an  arched  bridge  of  marble, 
with  railings  that  vaguely  suggest  a  succession  of 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     139 

animals'  heads.  Inside,  it  is  deserted,  abandoned, 
crumbling  away,  and  the  gold  ceiling  is  full  of 
birds'  nests.  A  really  magnificent  desk  is  left, 
with  an  arm-chair  and  a  table.  It  seems  as  though 
a  kind  of  fine  clay  had  been  scattered  by  handfuls 
over  everything ;  the  ground  is  covered  with  it  too, 
so  that  one's  feet  sink  into  it  and  one's  steps  are 
muffled.  We  soon  discover  that  there  is  still  a  car- 
pet underneath,  and  that  it  is  really  nothing  but 
dust  which  has  been  accumulating  for  centuries,  — 
the  thick  and  ever-present  dust  which  the  Mongo- 
lian winds  blow  across  Pekin. 

After  a  short  walk  under  the  old  trees  we  reach 
the  temple  itself,  which  is  preceded  by  a  court 
surrounded  by  tall  marble  pillars.  This  looks 
exactly  like  a  cemetery,  and  yet  there  are  no  dead 
lying  under  these  stele,  which  are  there  merely  to 
glorify  the  memory  of  the  departed.  Philosophers 
who  in  bygone  centuries  made  this  region  illus- 
trious by  their  presence  and  by  their  dreams,  pro- 
found thinkers,  lost  to  us  forever,  have  their  names 
as  well  as  some,  few  of  their  most  transcendent 
utterances,  perpetuated  on  these  stele. 

On  either  side  of  the  white  steps  leading  to 
the  sanctuary,  blocks  of  marble  are  arranged  in  the 
form  of  a  tam-tam.  These  are  so  old  as  to  make 
one's  head  swim;  and  upon  them  maxims  intelli- 
gible only  to  a  few  erudite  mandarins  have  been 


140    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

written  in  primitive  Chinese  characters,  in  letters 
contemporary  with  and  sisters  to  the  hieroglyphs 
of  Egypt. 

This  is  the  temple  of  disinterestedness,  of  ab- 
stract thought,  and  of  cold  speculation.  One  is 
struck  at  once  by  its  absolute  simplicity,  for  which, 
up  to  this  point,  nothing  in  China  has  prepared  us. 
Very  large,  very  high  as  to  ceilings,  very  grand 
and  of  a  uniform  blood-red  color,  it  is  magnifi- 
cently empty  and  supremely  quiet.  The  columns 
and  walls  are  red,  with  a  few  discreet  decorations 
in  gold,  dimmed  by  time  and  dust.  In  the  centre  is 
a  bouquet  of  gigantic  lotus  in  a  colossal  vase,  and 
that  is  all.  After  the  profusion,  the  debauch  of 
monsters  and  idols,  the  multiplication  of  human 
and  animal  forms  in  the  usual  Chinese  pagoda,  this 
absence  of  figures  of  any  sort  is  a  comfort  and  a 
relief. 

In  the  niches  all  along  the  wall  there  are  stele, 
red  like  the  rest  of  the  place,  and  consecrated  to  the 
memory  of  persons  still  more  eminent  than  those 
of  the  entrance  court,  with  quotations  from  their 
writings  carved  upon  them.  The  stele  of  Confu- 
cius himself,  which  is  larger  than  the  others,  and 
has  longer  quotations,  occupies  the  position  of 
honor  in  the  centre  of  this  severe  Pantheon,  and  is 
placed  on  a  kind  of  altar. 

Properly  speaking,  this  is  not  a  temple ;  it  is  not 


a  place  for  prayer  or  service.  It  is  rather  an 
academy,  a  meeting-place  for  calm,  philosophic 
discussion.  In  spite  of  its  dust  and  its  abandoned 
air,  it  seems  that  newly  elected  members  of  the 
Academy  of  Pekin  (which  is  even  more  than  our 
own  the  conservator  of  form  and  ceremony,  I  am 
assured)  are  still  bound  to  give  a  conference  here. 

Besides  various  maxims  of  renunciation  and 
wisdom  written  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  stele, 
Confucius  has  left  to  this  sanctuary  certain 
thoughts  on  literature  which  have  been  engraved 
in  letters  of  gold  in  such  a  way  as  to  form  pictures 
hung  on  the  walls. 

Here  is  one  which  I  transcribe  for  young 
western  scholars  who  are  preoccupied  with  classi- 
fication and  inquiry.  They  will  find  in  it  a  reply 
twice  two  thousand  years  old  to  one  of  their  fa- 
vorite questions :  "  The  literature  of  the  future 
will  be  the  literature  of  compassion." 

It  is  almost  five  o'clock  when  the  gloomy,  red, 
autumn  sun  goes  down  behind  great  China  on 
Europe's  side,  and  we  leave  the  temples  and  the 
grove  behind.  I  separate  from  my  companions, 
for  they  live  in  the  legation  quarter  in  the  southern 
part  of  the  Tartar  City,  while  I  go  to  the  Imperial 
City,  far  from  here. 

I  have  no  idea  how  to  get  out  of  this  dead  re- 


i42     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

gion,  all  new  to  me,  where  we  have  spent  the  day, 
and  through  the  lonely  labyrinthine  streets  of 
Pekin.  I  have  as  a  guide  a  "  mafou,"  who  has 
been  lent  to  me,  and  I  only  know  that  I  have  more 
than  a  mile  to  go  before  reaching  my  sumptuous, 
deserted  quarters. 

My  companions  gone,  I  walk  for  a  few  moments 
in  the  silent  old  uninhabited  streets  before  reaching 
one  of  the  long,  broad  avenues  where  blue  cotton 
dresses  and  long-queued  yellow  faces  begin  to 
appear.  There  is  an  interminable  row  of  low 
houses,  wretched,  gray  things,  on  either  side  of 
the  street,  where  the  tramp  of  horses  raises  the 
black  friable  dust  in  infectious  clouds. 

The  street  is  so  wide  and  the  houses  so  low 
that  almost  the  whole  of  the  twilight  sky  is  visible 
above  our  heads;  and  so  suddenly  does  the  cold 
come  on  after  sunset  that  in  a  moment  we  freeze. 

The  crowds  are  dense  about  the  food-shops, 
and  the  air  is  fetid  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
butchers,  where  dog-meat  and  roasted  grasshop- 
pers are  sold.  But  what  good  nature  in  all  these 
people  of  the  streets,  who  on  the  day  after  battle 
and  bombardment  permit  me  to  pass  without  so 
much  as  an  evil  look!  What  could  I  do,  with  my 
borrowed  "  mafou  "  and  my  revolver,  if  my  ap- 
pearance did  not  happen  to  please  them? 

For  a  time  after  this  we  are  alone  in  desolate, 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      143 

ruined  quarters  of  the  town.  According  to  the 
position  of  the  pale,  setting  sun,  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  are  on  the  right  track;  but  if  my  "  mafou," 
who  speaks  nothing  but  Chinese,  has  not  under- 
stood me,  I  shall  be  in  a  predicament. 

The  return  journey  in  the  cold  seems  inter-  £"*• 
minable  to  me.  At  last,  however,  the  artificial"" 
"mountain  of  the  imperial  park  is  silhouetted  in 
gray  on  the  sky  ahead  of  us,  with  the  little  faience 
kiosks  and  the  twisted  trees  grouping  themselves 
like  scenes  painted  on  lacquer.  We  reach  one  of 
the  yellow  enamelled  gates  of  the  blood-red  wall 
surrounding  the  Imperial  City,  where  two  senti- 
nels of  the  allied  armies  present  arms.  From  here 
I  know  my  way,  I  am  at  home;  so  I  dismiss  my 
guide  and  proceed  alone  to  the  Yellow  City,  from 
which  at  this  hour  no  one  is  allowed  to  depart. 

The  Imperial,  the  Yellow,  the  Forbidden  City, 
encircled  by  its  own  terrible  walls  in  the  very  heart 
of  great  Pekin,  with  its  Babylonian  environment, 
is  a  park  rather  than  a  city,  a  wood  of  venerable 
trees,  —  sombre  cypresses  and  cedars,  —  several 
leagues  in  circumference.  Some  ancient  temples 
peep  through  the  branches,  and  several  modern 
palaces  built  according  to  the  fancies  of  the  Em- 
press regent.  This  great  forest,  to  which  I  return 
to-night  as  if  it  were  my  home,  has  at  no  former 


i44     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

period  of  history  been  known  to  foreigners;  even 
ambassadors  have  never  passed  its  gates;  until 
recently  it  has  been  absolutely  inaccessible  and 
profoundly  unknown  to  Europeans. 

This  Yellow  City  surrounds  and  protects  with 
its  tranquil  shadows  the  still  more  mysterious 
Violet  City,  the  residence  of  the  Son  of  Heaven, 
which  occupies  a  commanding  square  in  the  centre 
of  it,  protected  by  moats  and  double  ramparts. 

What  silence  reigns  here  at  this  hour!  What 
a  lugubrious  region  it  is !  Death  hovers  over  these 
paths  where  formerly  princesses  passed  in  their 
palanquins  and  empresses  with  their  silk-robed  fol- 
lowers. Now  that  the  usual  inhabitants  have  fled 
and  Occidental  barbarians  have  taken  their  places, 
one  meets  no  one  in  the  woods,  unless  it  be  an 
occasional  patrol  or  a  few  soldiers  of  one  nation 
or  another,  and  only  the  sentinels'  step  is  heard 
before  palace  or  temple,  or  the  cries  of  the  crows 
and  the  barking  of  dogs  about  the  dead. 

I  have  to  cross  a  region  rilled  with  trees,  noth- 
ing but  trees,  —  trees  of  a  truly  Chinese  contour, 
whose  aspect  is  in  itself  quite  sufficient  to  give  one 
the  sharp  realization  of  exile;  the  road  goes  on 
under  the  deep  shadow  of  the  branches  that  turn 
the  twilight  into  night.  Belated  magpies  are  hop- 
ping about  on  the  withered  grass,  and  the  crows, 
too,  their  croakings  exaggerated  by  the  cold  and 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY     145 

the  silence.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a 
corner  of  the  Violet  City  appears,  just  at  a  turn 
of  the  road.  She  slowly  reveals  herself,  silent, 
closed,  like  a  colossal  tomb.  Her  long,  straight 
walls  are  lost  in  the  confusion  and  obscurity  of 
the  distance.  As  I  draw  nearer  to  her  the  silence 
seems  to  be  intensified,  as  though  it  grew  as  she 
broods  over  it. 

One  corner  of  the  Lake  of  the  Lotus  begins  to 
come  out  like  a  bit  of  mirror  placed  among  the 
reeds  to  receive  the  last  reflections  of  the  sky.  I 
must  pass  along  its  edges  in  front  of  the  Island  of 
Jade,  which  is  approached  by  a  marble  bridge ;  and 
I  know  in  advance,  because  I  have  seen  it  daily, 
the  horrible  grimace  in  store  for  me  from  the 
two  monsters  who  have  guarded  the  bridge  for 
centuries. 

At  length  I  emerge  from  the  shadow  and  op- 
pression of  the  trees  into  open  space  with  the 
clear  sky  overhead,  leaving  the  lake  behind  me. 
The  first  stars  are  appearing,  indicating  another 
of  the  nights  that  pass  here  in  an  excess  of  soli- 
tude and  silence,  with  only  an  occasional  gunshot 
to  break  the  tragic  calm  of  wood  and  palace. 

The  Lake  of  the  Lotus,  which  during  the  season 
of  flowers  must  be  the  marvellous  field  of  pink 
blossoms  described  by  the  poets  of  China,  is  now, 
at  the  end  of  October,  only  a  melancholy  swamp 


146     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

covered  with  brown  leaves,  from  which  at  this 
hour  a  wintry  mist  rises  that  hangs  like  a  cloud 
over  the  dead  reeds. 

My  dwelling  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake; 
and  now  I  have  reached  the  Marble  Bridge  which 
spans  it  with  a  beautiful  curve,  —  a  curve  that 
stands  out  white  in  spite  of  the  darkness. 

At  this  point  a  corpse-like  smell  greets  my  nos- 
trils. For  a  week  I  have  known  whence  it  comes, 
—  from  a  person  in  a  blue  gown  lying  with  out- 
spread arms,  face  downward,  on  the  slimy  shore; 
and  ten  steps  farther  on  his  comrade  is  lying  in 
the  grass. 

As  soon  as  I  cross  the  beautiful  lonely  Marble 
Bridge  through  the  pale  cloud  that  hangs  over  the 
water  I  shall  be  almost  home.  At  my  left  is  a 
faience  gateway  guarded  by  two  German  senti- 
nels, —  two  living  beings  whom  I  shall  not  be 
sorry  to  see,  —  who  will  salute  me  in  automatic 
unison;  this  will  be  at  the  entrance  to  the  garden 
where  Field-Marshal  von  Waldersee  resides,  in 
one  of  the  Empress's  palaces. 

Two  hundred  metres  farther  on,  after  passing 
more  gates  and  more  ruins,  I  shall  come  to  a  fresh 
opening  in  an  old  wall,  which  will  be  my  entrance, 
guarded  by  one  of  our  own  men,  —  an  African 
chasseur.  Another  of  the  Empress's  palaces  is 
there  concealed  by  its  surroundings,  —  a  frail 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      147 

palace,  almost  wholly  enclosed  in  glass.  Once 
there,  I  push  open  a  glass  door  decorated  with 
pink  lotus  flowers,  and  find  again  my  nightly 
fairyland,  where  priceless  porcelains,  cloisonne, 
and  lacquer  stand  about  in  profusion  on  the  yel- 
low carpets  under  the  wonderfully  carved  arches 
of  ebony. 


IX 

IT  is  dark  when  I  reach  my  dwelling-place.  The 
fires  are  already  lighted  in  the  subterranean  fur- 
naces, and  a  soft  heat  rises  through  the  thick  yel- 
low carpets.  We  feel  much  at  home  and  quite 
comfortable  now  in  this  palace,  which  at  first 
seemed  so  dreary  to  us. 

I  dine,  as  usual,  at  a  small  ebony  table,  which 
is  lost  in  the  long  gallery  so  dark  at  either  end, 
in  company  with  my  comrade,  Captain  C,  who 
has  discovered  new  and  wonderful  treasures  dur- 
ing the  day,  which  he  has  spread  out,  that  we 
may  enjoy  them  for  at  least  an  evening. 

First,  there  is  a  throne  of  a  style  unknown  to 
us ;  some  screens  of  colossal  size  that  rest  in  ebony 
sockets,  on  which  shining  birds  are  battling  with 
monkeys  amid  the  flowers  of  a  dream.  Cande- 
labra, which  have  remained  in  their  silk  cases 
since  the  seventeenth  century,  now  hang  from  the 


148     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

arches  above  our  heads,  —  a  shower  of  pearls  and 
enamel,  —  and  many  other  indescribable  things 
added  to-day  to  our  wealth  of  articles  of  antique 
art. 

It  is  the  last  time  we  shall  be  able  to  enjoy  our 
gallery  in  its  completeness,  for  to-morrow  most 
of  these  objects  are  to  be  labelled  and  sent  off 
with  the  reserve  stock.  Retaining  one  salon  for 
the  general,  who  is  to  winter  here,  the  rest  of  this 
wing  of  the  palace  is  to  be  cut  up  by  light  parti- 
tions into  lodgings  and  offices  for  the  staff.  This 
work  will  be  done  under  the  direction  of  Captain 
C.,  who  is  chief  architect  and  supervisor,  whilst 
I,  a  passing  guest,  will  have  only  a  consulting 
voice. 

As  this  evening  marks  the  last  chapter  of  our 
imperial  phantasmagoria,  we  sit  up  later  than 
usual.  For  this  once  we  are  childish  enough  to 
array  ourselves  in  sumptuous  Asiatic  garments, 
then  we  throw  ourselves  down  on  the  cushions 
and  call  opium  —  so  favorable  to  weary  and 
blase  imaginations  such  as  ours  have  unfortu- 
nately begun  to  be  —  to  our  aid.  Alas !  to  be 
alone  in  this  palace  would  have  seemed  magical 
enough  to  us  a  few  years  ago  without  the  aid  of 
any  avatar. 

The   opium,    needless   to   say,   is   of   exquisite 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      149 

quality;  its  fumes,  rising  in  rapid  little  spirals, 
soon  make  the  air  sweet  and  heavy.  It  quickly 
brings  to  us  the  ecstasy,  the  forgetfulness,  the  re- 
lief, the  youthful  lightness  so  dear  to  the  Chinese. 

There  is  absolute  silence  without;  absolute  si- 
lence and  deserted  courts,  where  all  is  cold  and 
black.  The  gallery  grows  warm,  the  heat  of  the 
furnace  is  heavy,  for  these  walls  of  glass  and 
paper,  so  frail  as  a  protection  against  surprises 
from  without,  form  rooms  almost  hermetically 
sealed  and  propitious  to  the  intoxication  that 
comes  from  perfumes. 

Stretched  out  upon  the  silken  cushions,  we  gaze 
at  the  receding  ceiling,  at  the  row  of  arches  so 
elaborately  carved  into  lacework,  from  which  the 
lanterns  with  the  dangling  pearls  are  suspended. 
Chimaeras  of  gold  stand  out  from  the  thick  folds 
of  the  green  or  yellow  silks.  High  screens  of 
cloisonne,  lacquer,  or  ebony,  the  great  luxury  of 
China,  shut  off  the  corners,  forming  luxurious 
nooks  filled  with  jars,  bronzes,  and  monsters 
with  eyes  of  jade,  —  eyes  which  squintingly  fol- 
low you. 

Absolute  silence,  except  that  from  a  distance 
one  of  those  shots  is  heard  which  never  fails  to 
mark  the  torpor  of  the  night,  or  a  cry  of  distress 
or  alarm;  skirmishes  between  Europeans  in  the 


150    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

posts  and  thieving  Chinamen;    sentinels  afraid  of 
the  dead  or  of  the  night  shooting  at  a  shadow. 

In  the  foreground,  which  is  lighted  by  one  lamp, 
the  only  luminous  things  whose  design  and  color 
are  engraved  upon  our  already  fixed  gaze  are  four 
gigantic  incense-burners  —  hieratic  in  form,  and 
made  of  an  adorable  blue  cloisonne  —  resting  on 
gold  elephants.  They  stand  out  against  a  back- 
ground of  black  lacquer  traversed  by  flying  birds, 
whose  plumage  is  made  of  different  kinds  of 
mother-of-pearl.  No  doubt  our  lamp  is  going 
out,  for,  with  the  exception  of  these  nearer  things, 
we  scarcely  see  the  magnificence  of  the  place  until 
the  outline  of  some  rare  vase  five  hundred  years 
old,  the  reflection  of  a  piece  of  inimitable  silk,  or 
the  brilliancy  of  some  bit  of  enamel  recalls  it  to 
our  memory. 

The  fumes  of  the  opium  keep  us  awake  until 
very  late,  in  a  state  of  mind  that  is  both  lucid  and 
at  the  same  time  confused.  We  have  never  until 
now  understood  Chinese  art;  it  is  revealed  to  us 
for  the  first  time  to-night.  In  the  beginning  we 
were  ignorant,  as  is  all  the  world,  of  its  almost 
terrible  grandeur  until  we  saw  the  Imperial  City 
and  the  walled  palace  of  the  Son  of  Heaven ;  now 
at  this  nocturnal  hour,  amid  the  fragrant  fumes 
that  rise  in  clouds  in  our  over-heated  gallery,  our 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     151 

impressions  of  the  big  sombre  temples,  of  the 
yellow  enamelled  roofs  crowning  the  Titanic  build- 
ings that  rise  above  terraces  of  marble,  are  exalted 
above  mere  captivated  admiration  to  respect  and 
awe. 

In  the  thousand  details  of  its  embroidery  and 
carvings  which  surround  us  in  such  profusion, 
we  learn  how  skilful  and  how  exact  this  art  is 
in  rendering  the  grace  of  flowers,  exaggerating 
their  superb  and  languishing  poses  and  their 
deep  or  deliciously  pale  colorings;  then  in  order 
to  make  clear  the  cruelty  of  every  kind  of  living 
thing,  down  to  dragons  and  butterflies,  they  place 
claws,  horns,  terrible  smiles,  and  leering  eyes  upon 
them !  They  are  right ;  these  embroideries  on  our 
cushions  are  roses,  lotus  flowers,  chrysanthemums ! 
As  for  the  insects,  the  scarabs,  the  flies,  and  the 
moths,  they  are  just  like  those  horrid  things 
painted  in  gold  relief  on  our  court  fans. 

When  we  arrive  at  that  special  form  of  physical 
prostration  which  sets  the  mind  free  (disengages 
the  astral  body,  they  say  at  Benares),  everything 
in  the  palace,  as  well  as  in  the  outside  world, 
seems  easy  and  amusing.  We  congratulate  our- 
selves upon  having  come  to  live  in  the  Yellow  City 
at  so  unique  a  period  in  the  history  of  China,  at  a 
moment  when  everything  is  free,  and  we  are  left 
almost  alone  to  gratify  our  whims  and  curiosity. 


152     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

Life  seems  to  hold  to-morrows  filled  with  new  and 
interesting  circumstances.  In  our  conversation  we 
find  words,  formulas,  images,  to  express  the  inex- 
pressible, the  things  that  have  never  been  said. 
The  hopelessness,  the  misery  that  one  carries  about 
like  the  weight  on  a  convict's  leg,  is  incontestably 
lessened;  and  as  to  the  small  annoyances  of  the 
moment,  the  little  pin-pricks,  they  exist  no  longer. 
For  example,  when  we  see  through  the  glass  gal- 
lery the  pale  light  of  a  moving  lantern  in  a  distant 
part  of  our  palace,  we  say  without  the  slightest 
feeling  of  disturbance :  "  More  thieves !  They 
must  see  us.  We  '11  hunt  them  down  to-morrow !  " 
And  it  seems  of  no  consequence,  even  comfort- 
able to  us,  that  our  cushions  and  our  imperial  silks 
are  shut  off  from  the  cold  and  the  horrors  by  noth- 
ing but  panes  of  glass. 


X 

THURSDAY,  October  25. 

I  HAVE  worked  all  day,  with  only  my  cat  for  com- 
pany, in  the  solitude  of  the  Rotunda  Palace  that 
I  deserted  yesterday. 

At  the  hour  when  the  red  sun  is  setting  behind 
the  Lake  of  the  Lotus  my  two  servants  come  as 
usual  to  get  me.  But  this  time,  after  crossing  the 
Marble  Bridge,  we  pass  the  turn  which  leads  to 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      153 

my  palace,  for  I  have  to  pay  a  visit  to  Monsignor 
Favier,  the  Bishop  of  Pekin,  who  lives  in  our 
vicinity,  outside  yet  quite  near  the  Imperial  City. 

It  is  twilight  by  the  time  we  reach  the  "  Cath- 
olic Concession,"  where  the  missionaries  and  their 
little  band  of  yellow  followers  endured  the  stress 
of  a  long  siege.  The  cathedral,  riddled  with  balls, 
has  a  vague  look  against  the  dark  sky;  and  it  is 
so  dusty  that  we  see  as  through  a  fog  this  newly 
built  cathedral,  the  one  the  Empress  paid  for  in 
place  of  the  one  she  took  for  a  storehouse. 

Monsignor  Favier,  the  head  of  the  French  mis- 
sions, has  lived  in  Pekin  for  forty  years,  has  en- 
joyed for  a  long  time  the  favor  of  the  sovereigns, 
and  was  the  first  to  foresee  and  denounce  the  Boxer 
peril.  In  spite  of  the  temporary  blow  to  his  work, 
he  is  still  a  power  in  China,  where  the  title  of 
Viceroy  was  at  one  time  conferred  upon  him. 

The  white-walled  room  where  he  receives  me, 
lately  pierced  by  a  cannon-ball,  contains  some 
precious  Chinese  bibelots,  whose  presence  here 
astonishes  every  one  at  first.  He  collected  them 
in  other  days,  and  is  selling  them  now  in  order 
to  be  able  to  assist  several  thousand  hungry  people 
driven  by  the  war  into  his  church. 

The  bishop  is  a  tall  man,  with  fine,  regular 
features,  and  eyes  that  show  shrewdness  and  en- 
ergy. He  must  resemble  in  looks,  as  well  as  in 


i54     THE    LAST   DAYS    OF    PEKIN 

his  determined  will,  those  bishops  of  the  Middle 
Ages  who  went  on  Crusades  to  the  Holy  Land. 
It  is  only  since  the  outbreak  of  hostilities  against 
the  Christians  that  he  has  resumed  the  priests' 
cloth  and  cut  off  his  long  Chinese  queue.  Per- 
mission to  wear  the  queue  and  the  Mandarins' 
garb  was  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  subversive 
favors  accorded  the  Lazarists  by  the  Celestial 
emperors. 

He  was  good  enough  to  keep  me  with  him  for 
an  hour.  A  well-dressed  Chinese  served  us  with 
tea  while  he  told  me  of  the  recent  tragedy ;  of  the 
defence  of  fourteen  hundred  metres  of  wall,  or- 
ganized out  of  nothing  by  a  young  ensign  and 
thirty  sailors,  of  their  holding  out  for  two  or 
three  months  right  in  the  heart  of  an  enflamed 
city,  against  thousands  of  enemies  wild  with  fury. 
Although  he  tells  it  all  in  a  very  low  tone,  his 
speech  grows  warmer,  and  vibrates  with  a  sort  of 
soldierly  ruggedness  as  some  emotion  chokes  him, 
especially  whenever  he  mentions  Ensign  Henry. 

Ensign  Henry  died,  pierced  by  two  balls,  at  the 
end  of  the  last  great  fight.  Of  his  thirty  sailors 
many  were  killed,  and  almost  all  were  wounded. 
This  story  of  a  summer  should  be  written  some- 
where in  letters  of  gold,  lest  it  should  be  too  quickly 
forgotten;  it  should  be  attested,  lest  some  day  it 
should  no  longer  be  believed. 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      155 

The  sailors  'under  the  command  of  this  young 
officer  were  not  picked  men;  they  were  the  first 
that  came,  selected  hap-hazard  on  board  ship.  A 
few  noble  priests  shared  their  vigils,  a  few  brave 
seminarists  took  a  turn  under  their  orders,  be- 
sides a  horde  of  Chinese  armed  with  miserable 
old  guns.  But  the  sailors  were  the  heart  and 
soul  of  this  obstinate  defence;  there  was  neither 
weakening  nor  complaint  in  the  face  of  death, 
which  was  at  all  times  present  in  its  most  atro- 
cious forms. 

An  officer  and  ten  Italian  soldiers  brought  hither 
by  chance  also  fought  heroically,  leaving  six  of 
their  number  among  the  dead. 

Oh,  the  heroism,  the  lowly  heroism  of  these 
poor  Chinese  Christians,  both  Catholic  and  Prot- 
estant, who  sought  protection  in  the  bishop's 
palace,  knowing  that  one  word  of  abjuration,  one 
reverence  to  a  Buddhist  image  would  ensure  their 
lives,  yet  who  remained  there,  faithful,  in  spite  of 
gnawing  hunger  and  almost  certain  martyrdom! 
And  at  the  same  time,  outside  of  these  walls  which 
protected  them  in  a  measure,  fifteen  thousand  of 
their  brothers  were  burned,  dismembered,  and 
thrown  piecemeal  into  the  river  on  account  of 
the  new  faith  which  they  would  not  renounce. 

Unheard-of  things  happened  during  this  siege: 


156     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

a  bishop,1  followed  by  an  ensign  and  four  ma- 
rines, went  to  wrest  a  cannon  from  the  enemy, 
balls  grazing  their  heads;  theological  students 
manufactured  powder  from  the  charred  branches 
of  the  trees  in  the  close,  and  from  saltpetre,  which 
they  scaled  the  walls  to  steal  at  night  from  a 
Chinese  arsenal. 

They  lived  in  a  continual  tumult  under  a  con- 
tinual fire  of  stones  and  shot;  all  the  marble  bell- 
towers  of  the  cathedral,  riddled  by  shells,  tottered 
and  fell  piecemeal  upon  their  heads.  At  all  hours, 
without  truce,  bullets  rained  in  the  court,  break- 
ing in  the  roofs  and  weakening  the  walls.  At 
night  especially  balls  fell  like  hailstones  to  the 
sound  of  the  Boxers'  trumpets  and  frightful  gongs. 
And  all  the  while  their  death-cries,  "  Cha !  Cha !  " 
(Let  us  kill,  let  us  kill)  or  "  Chao!  Chao!  "  (Let 
us  burn,  let  us  burn)  filled  the  city  like  the  cries 
of  an  enormous  pack  of  hounds. 

It  was  in  July  and  August  under  a  burning  sky, 
and  they  lived  surrounded  by  fire;  incendiaries 
sprinkled  their  roofs  and  their  entrances  with  pe- 
troleum by  means  of  pumps  and  threw  lighted 
torches  onto  them ;  they  were  obliged  to  run  from 
one  place  to  another  and  to  climb  up  with  ladders 
and  wet  blankets  to  put  out  the  flames.  They  had 

1  Monsignor  Jarlin,  the  coadjutor  of  Monsignor  Favier. 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     157 

to  run,  run  all  the  time,  when  they  were  so  ex- 
hausted and  their  heads  so  heavy  from  having  had 
no  food,  that  they  could  scarcely  stand. 

Even  the  good  Sisters  had  to  organize  a  kind 
of  race  for  the  women  and  children,  who  were 
stupefied  from  fear  and  suffering.  It  was  these 
sublime  women  who  decided  when  it  was  neces- 
sary to  change  positions  according  to  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  shells  came  and  who  chose 
the  least  dangerous  moment  to  fly,  with  bowed 
heads,  across  a  court,  and  to  take  refuge  else- 
where. A  thousand  women  without  wills  or  ideas 
of  their  own,  with  poor  dying  babies  clinging  to 
their  breasts,  followed  them;  a  human  eddy,  ad- 
vancing, receding,  pushing,  in  order  to  keep  in 
sight  the  white  caps  of  their  protectors. 

They  had  to  run  when,  from  lack  of  food,  they 
could  scarcely  stand,  and  when  a  supreme  lassitude 
impelled  them  to  lie  down  on  the  ground  to  await 
death!  They  had  to  become  accustomed  to  de- 
tonations that  never  ceased,  to  perpetual  noise,  to 
shot  and  shell,  to  the  fall  of  stones,  to  seeing  one 
of  their  number  fall  bathed  in  his  own  blood! 
Hunger  was  the  most  intolerable  of  all.  They 
made  soup  of  the  leaves  and  young  branches  of 
the  trees,  of  dahlia  roots  from  the  gardens  and  of 
lily  bulbs.  The  poor  Chinese  would  say  humbly, 
"  We  must  keep  the  little  grain  we  have  left  for 


158     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

the  sailors  who  are  protecting  us,  and  whose  need 
of  strength  is  greater  than  ours." 

The  bishop  told  of  a  poor  woman  who  had  been 
confined  the  previous  night,  who  dragged  herself 
after  him  imploring:  "  Bishop,  bishop,  give  me  a 
handful  of  grain  so  that  my  milk  will  come  and 
my  child  may  not  die!  "  *•— ""^ 

All  night  long  the  feeble  voices  of  several  hun- 
dred children  were  heard  in  the  church  moaning 
for  lack  of  food.  To  use  the  expression  of  Mon- 
signor  Favier,  it  was  like  "  the  bleatings  of  a  flock 
of  lambs  about  to  be  sacrificed."  But  their  cries 
diminished,  for  they  were  buried  at  the  rate  of 
fifteen  in  a  single  day. 

They  knew  that  not  far  away  in  the  European 
legations  a  similar  drama  was  being  enacted,  but, 
needless  to  say,  there  was  no  communication  be- 
tween them;  and  if  any  young  Chinese  Christian 
offered  to  go  there  with  a  message  from  the 
bishop  asking  for  help,  or  at  least  for  news,  it 
was  not  long  before  they  saw  his  head,  with  the 
note  pinned  to  his  cheek,  reappear  above  the  wall 
at  the  end  of  a  rod  garnished  with  his  entrails. 

Not  only  did  bullets  rain  by  the  hundreds  every 
day,  but  the  Boxers  put  anything  that  fell  into 
their  furious  hands  into  their  cannon,  —  stones, 
bricks,  bits  of  iron,  old  kettles.  The  besieged  had 
no  doctors ;  they  hopelessly,  and  as  best  they  could, 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     159 

bound  up  great  horrible  wounds,  great  holes  in 
the  breast.  The  arms  of  the  voluntary  grave- 
diggers  were  exhausted  with  digging  places  in 
which  to  bury  the  dead,  or  parts  of  the  dead.  And 
the  cry  of  the  infuriated  mob  went  on,  "  Cha ! 
Cha!"  (Let  us  kill,  let  us  kill!)  to  the  grim 
sounds  of  their  iron  gongs  and  the  blasts  of  their 
trumpets. 

Mines  went  off  in  different  localities,  swallow- 
ing up  people  and  bits  of  wall.  In  the  gulf  made 
by  one  of  them  fifty  little  babies  in  their  cradles 
disappeared.  Their  sufferings  at  least  were  over. 
Each  time  a  new  breach  was  made  the  Boxers 
threw  themselves  upon  it,  and  it  became  a  yawn- 
ing opportunity  for  torture  and  death. 

But  Ensign  Henry  was  always  there;  with  such 
of  his  sailors  as  had  been  spared  he  was  seen  rush- 
ing to  the  place  where  he  was  needed,  to  the  exact 
spot  where  the  most  effective  work  could  be  done, 
—  on  a  roof  or  on  the  crest  of  a  wall,  —  and  they 
killed  and  they  killed,  without  losing  a  ball,  every 
shot  dealing  death.  Fifty,  a  hundred  of  them, 
crouched  in  heaps  on  the  ground;  priests  and 
Chinese  women,  as  well  as  men,  brought  stones, 
bricks,  marble,  no  matter  what,  from  the  cathe- 
dral, and  with  the  mortar  they  had  ready  they 
closed  the  breach  and  were  saved  again  until  the 
next  mine  exploded! 


160    THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

But  they  came  to  the  end  of  their  strength,  the 
meagre  ration  of  soup  grew  less  and  less,  and  they 
could  do  no  more. 

The  bodies  of  Boxers,  piled  up  along  the  vast 
enclosure  which  they  so  desperately  defended, 
filled  the  air  with  a  pestilential  odor;  dogs  were 
attracted  and  gathered  in  moments  of  calm  for  a 
meal.  During  the  latter  part  of  the  time  they 
killed  these  dogs  from  the  tops  of  the  walls  and 
pulled  them  in  by  means  of  a  hook  at  the  end  of 
a  cord,  and  their  meat  was  saved  for  the  sick  and 
for  nursing  mothers. 

On  the  day  when  our  soldiers  at  last  entered 
the  place,  guided  by  the  white-haired  bishop  stand- 
ing on  the  wall  and  waving  the  French  flag,  on 
the  day  when  they  threw  themselves  with  tears  of 
joy  in  one  another's  arms,  there  remained  just 
enough  food  to  make,  with  the  addition  of  many 
leaves,  one  last  meal. 

"  It  seemed,"  said  Monsignor  Favier,  "  as 
though  Providence  had  counted  the  grains  of 
rice." 

Then  he  spoke  once  more  of  Ensign  Henry. 
"  The  only  time  during  the  entire  siege,"  he  said, 
"  the  only  time  we  wept  was  when  he  died.  He 
remained  on  his  feet  giving  his  orders,  although 
mortally  wounded  in  two  places.  When  the  fight 
was  over  he  came  down  from  the  breach  and  fell 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      161 

exhausted  in  the  arms  of  two  of  the  priests ;  then 
we  all  wept  with  the  sailors,  who  had  come  up  and 
surrounded  him.  He  was  so  charming,  simple, 
good,  and  gentle  with  even  the  humblest.  To  be 
a  soldier  such  as  he  was,  to  make  yourself  loved 
like  a  little  child,  could  there  be  anything  more 
beautiful  ?  "  Then  after  a  silence  he  added,  "  And 
he  had  faith ;  every  morning  he  used  to  come  with 
us  to  prayers  and  to  communion,  saying  with  a 
smile,  '  One  must  be  always  ready.' ' 

It  is  quite  dark  before  I  take  leave  of  the  bishop, 
on  whom  I  had  intended  to  pay  a  short  call.  All 
around  him  now,  of  course,  everything  is  desolate 
and  in  ruins;  there  are  no  houses  left,  and  the 
streets  cannot  even  be  traced.  I  go  away  with  my 
two  servants,  our  revolvers  and  one  little  lantern; 
I  go  thinking  of  Ensign  Henry,  of  his  glory,  of 
his  deliverance,  of  everything  rather  than  the 
insignificant  detail  of  the  road  to  be  followed 
among  the  ruins.  Besides,  it  is  not  far,  scarcely 
a  kilometre. 

A  violent  wind  extinguishes  the  candle  in  its 
paper  sheath,  and  envelops  us  in  dust  so  thick 
that  we  cannot  see  two  steps  in  front  of  us;  it  is 
like  a  thick  fog.  So,  never  having  been  in  this 
quarter  before,  we  are  lost,  and  go  stumbling 
along  over  stones,  over  rubbish,  over  broken  pot- 
tery, and  human  bones. 

ii 


162     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

We  can  scarcely  see  the  stars  for  the  thick  cloud 
of  dust,  and  we  don't  know  which  way  to  go. 

Suddenly  we  get  the  smell  of  a  dead  body  and 
we  recognize  the  ditch  we  discovered  yesterday 
morning  just  in  time  to  keep  from  falling  into  it. 
So  all  is  well ;  only  two  hundred  metres  more  and 
we  shall  be  at  home  in  our  glass  palace. 


XI 

FRIDAY,  October  26. 

LEAVING  my  palace  a  little  late,  I  hasten  to  keep 
the  appointment  made  for  me  by  Li-Hung-Chang 
for  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

An  African  chasseur  accompanies  me.  Follow- 
ing a  Chinese  outrider  sent  to  guide  us,  we  start 
off  at  a  rapid  trot  through  the  dust  and  silence 
under  the  sun's  white  rays,  along  the  great  walls 
and  marshy  moats  of  the  Emperor's  Palace. 

When  we  get  outside  of  the  Yellow  City  noise 
and  life  begin  again.  After  the  magnificent  soli- 
tude to  which  we  have  become  accustomed,  when- 
ever we  return  to  everybody's  Pekin,  we  are 
surprised  to  find  such  a  roar  among  these  humble 
crowds;  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  the  woods,  the 
lakes,  the  horizons,  which  play  at  being  the  real 
country,  are  artificial  things  surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  the  most  swarming  of  cities. 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     163 

It  is  incontestable  that  the  people  are  returning 
in  crowds  to  Pekin.  (According  to  Monsignor 
Favier,  the  Boxers  in  particular  are  returning  in 
all  kinds  of  costumes  and  disguises.)  From  day  to 
day  the  number  of  silk  gowns,  blue  cotton  gowns, 
slanting  eyes,  and  queues  increases. 

We  must  move  faster  in  spite  of  all  the  people, 
for  it  seems  it  is  still  some  distance,  and  time  is 
passing.  Our  outrider  appears  to  be  galloping. 
We  cannot  see  him,  for  here  the  streets  are  even 
dustier  than  in  the  Yellow  City;  we  see  only  the 
cloud  of  dust  that  envelops  his  little  Mongolian 
horse,  and  we  follow  that. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour's  rapid  riding  the 
dust  cloud  stops  in  front  of  a  ramshackle  old  house 
in  a  narrow  street  that  leads  nowhere.  Is  it 
possible  that  Li-Hung-Chang,  rich  as  Aladdin, 
the  owner  of  palaces  and  countless  treasures,  one 
of  the  most  enduring  favorites  of  the  Empress 
and  one  of  the  glories  of  China,  lives  here  ? 

For  reasons  unknown  to  me,  the  entrance  is 
guarded  by  Cossack  soldiers  in  poor  uniforms  but 
with  naive  rosy  faces.  The  room  into  which  I 
am  taken  is  dilapidated  and  untidy ;  there  is  a  table 
in  the  middle  of  it  and  two  or  three  rather  well- 
carved  ebony  chairs;  but  that  is  all.  At  one  end 
is  a  chaos  of  trunks,  bags,  packages,  and  bedding, 


1 64     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

all  tied  up  as  though  in  preparation  for  flight. 
The  Chinese  who  comes  to  the  door,  in  a  beautiful 
gown  of  plum-colored  silk,  gives  me  a  seat  and 
offers  me  tea.  He  is  the  interpreter,  and  speaks 
French  correctly,  even  elegantly.  He  tells  me 
that  some  one  has  gone  to  announce  me  to  his 
Highness. 

At  a  sign  from  another  Chinese  he  presently 
conducts  me  into  a  second  court,  and  there,  at  the 
door  leading  into  a  reception-room,  a  tall  old  man 
advances  to  meet  me.  At  his  right  and  his  left 
are  silk-robed  servants,  both  a  whole  head  shorter 
than  he  is,  on  whose  shoulders  he  leans.  He  is 
colossal,  with  very  prominent  cheek-bones,  and 
small,  very  small,  quick  and  searching  eyes.  He  is 
an  exaggeration  of  the  Mongolian  type,  with  a  cer- 
tain beauty  withal,  and  the  air  of  a  great  person- 
age, although  his  furry  gown  of  an  indefinite  color 
is  worn  and  spotted.  (I  have  been  forewarned 
that  in  these  days  of  abomination  his  High- 
ness believes  that  he  should  affect  poverty.)  The 
large  shabby  room  where  he  receives  me  is,  like 
the  first  one,  strewn  with  trunks  and  packages. 
We  take  arm-chairs  opposite  each  other,  while 
servants  place  cigarettes,  tea,  and  champagne  on 
a  table  between  us.  At  first  we  stare  at  each  other 
like  two  beings  from  different  worlds. 

After  inquiring  as  to  my  age  and  the  amount 


IN    THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      165 

of  my  income  (one  of  the  rules  of  Chinese  polite- 
ness), he  bows  again,  and  conversation  begins. 

When  we  have  finished  discussing  the  burning 
questions  of  the  day,  Li-Hung-Chang  expresses 
sympathy  for  China  and  for  ruined  Pekin.  "  Hav- 
ing visited  the  whole  of  Europe,"  he  says,  "  I  have 
seen  the  museums  of  all  your  great  capitals.  Pekin 
had  her  own  also,  for  the  whole  Yellow  City  was 
a  museum  begun  centuries  ago,  and  may  be  com- 
pared with  the  most  beautiful  of  your  own.  And 
now  it  is  destroyed." 

He  questions  me  as  to  what  we  are  doing  over 
in  the  Palace  of  the  North,  informs  himself  by 
adroit  questioning  as  to  whether  we  are  injuring 
anything  there.  He  knows  as  well  as  I  do  what 
we  are  doing,  for  he  has  spies  everywhere,  even 
among  our  workmen;  yet  his  enigmatical  face 
shows  some  satisfaction  when  I  confirm  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  fact  that  we  are  destroying  nothing. 

When  the  audience  is  over,  and  we  have  shaken 
hands,  Li-Hung-Chang,  still  leaning  on  his  two 
servants,  comes  with  me  as  far  as  the  centre  of 
the  court.  As  I  turn  at  the  threshold  to  make  my 
final  bow,  he  courteously  recalls  to  my  memory  my 
offer  to  send  him  my  account  of  my  stay  in  Pekin, 
—  if  ever  I  find  time  to  write  it.  In  spite  of  the 
perfect  grace  of  his  reception  of  me,  due  especially 


i66     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

to  my  title  of  "  Mandarin  of  Letters,"  this  old 
prince  of  the  Chinese  Arabian  Nights'  tales,  in 
his  threadbare  garments  and  in  his  wretched  sur- 
roundings, has  not  ceased  to  seem  to  me  disturb- 
ing, inscrutable,  and  possibly  secretly  disdainful 
and  ironical,  all  the  time  disguising  his  real 
self. 

I  now  make  my  way  across  two  kilometres  of 
rubbish  to  the  quarters  of  the  European  legations 
in  order  to  take  leave  of  the  French  minister,  who 
is  still  ill  in  bed,  and  to  get  from  him  his  com- 
missions for  the  admiral,  for  I  must  leave  Pekin 
not  later  than  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  go 
back  to  my  ship. 

Just  as  I  was  mounting  my  horse  again,  after 
this  visit,  to  return  to  the  Yellow  City,  some  one 
from  the  legation  came  out  and  very  kindly  gave 
me  some  precise  and  very  curious  information 
which  will  enable  me  this  evening  to  purloin  two 
tiny  shoes  that  once  belonged  to  the  Empress  of 
China,  and  to  take  them  away  as  a  part  of  the  pil- 
lage. On  a  shady  island  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  Lake  of  the  Lotus  is  a  frail,  almost  hidden 
palace,  where  the  sovereign  slept  that  last  ago- 
nizing night  before  her  frantic  flight,  disguised  as 
a  beggar.  The  second  room  to  the  left,  at  the  back 
of  the  second  court  of  this  palace,  was  her  room, 
and  there,  it  seems,  under  a  carved  bed,  lie  two 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY     167 

little  red  silk  shoes  embroidered  with  butterflies 
and  flowers,  which  must  have  belonged  to  her. 

I.  return  to  the  Yellow  City  as  fast  as  I  can, 
breakfast  hurriedly  in  the  glass  gallery,  —  whence 
the  wonderful  treasures  are  already  being  carried 
to  their  new  quarters  to  make  way  for  the  carpen- 
ters, who  soon  begin  their  work,  here,  —  and 
straightway  depart  with  my  two  faithful  servants, 
on  foot  this  time,  in  search  of  the  island,  the  palace, 
and  the  pair  of  small  shoes. 

The  one  o'clock  sun  is  burning  the  dry  paths, 
and  the  cedars  overhead  are  gray  with  dust.  About 
two  kilometres  to  the  south  of  our  residence  we 
find  the  island  without  difficulty.  It  is  in  a  region 
where  the  lake  divides  into  various  little  arms, 
spanned  by  marble  bridges  with  marble  railings 
entwined  with  green.  The  palace  stands  there 
light  and  charming,  half  concealed  among  the 
trees,  on  a  terrace  of  white  marble.  The  roofs  of 
green  faience  touched  with  gilt  and  the  open-work 
walls  shine  forth  with  new  and  costly  ornamenta- 
tion from  amid  the  dusty  green  of  the  old  cedars. 
It  must  have  been  a  marvel  of  grace  and  daintiness, 
and  it  is  adorable  as  it  is,  deserted  and  silent. 

Through  the  doors  opening  onto  the  white  steps 
that  lead  up  to  it,  a  perfect  cascade  of  debris  of  all 
kinds  is  tumbling,  —  boxes  of  imperial  porcelains, 
boxes  of  gold  lacquer,  small  bronze  dragons  up- 


168     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

side  down,  bits  of  rose-colored  silk,  and  bunches 
of  artificial  flowers.  Barbarians  have  been  this 
way,  —  but  which  ?  Surely  not  our  soldiers,  for 
this  part  of  the  Yellow  City  was  never  placed  in 
their  hands;  they  are  not  familiar  with  it. 

The  interior  courts,  from  which  at  our  approach 
a  flock  of  crows  rise,  are  in  the  same  condition. 
The  pavement  is  strewn  with  delicate,  rather  fem- 
inine things,  which  have  been  ruthlessly  destroyed. 
And  so  recent  is  this  destruction  that  the  light 
stuffs,  the  silk  flowers,  the  parts  of  costumes  have 
not  even  lost  their  freshness. 

"  At  the  back  of  the  second  court,  the  second 
room  to  the  left !  "  Here  it  is !  There  remains  a 
throne,  some  arm-chairs,  and  a  big,  low  bed,  carved 
by  the  hand  of  genius.  Everything  has  been  ran- 
sacked. The  window-glass,  through  which  the 
sovereign  could  gaze  upon  the  reflections  of 
the  lake  and  the  pink  blossoms  of  the  lotus,  the 
marble  bridges,  the  islands,  the  whole  landscape 
devised  and  realized  for  her  eyes,  has  been  broken ; 
and  a  fine  white  silk,  with  which  the  walls  were 
hung,  and  on  which  some  exquisite  artist  had 
painted  in  pale  tints,  larger  than  nature,  other 
lotus  blossoms,  languishing,  bent  by  the  autumn 
wind,  and  strewing  their  petals,  has  been  torn  in 
shreds. 

Under  the  bed,  where  I  look  immediately,  is  a 


IN    THE    IMPERIAL   CITY     169 

pile  of  manuscript  and  charming  bits  of  silk.  My 
two  servants,  foraging  with  sticks,  like  rag-pickers, 
soon  succeed  in  finding  what  I  seek,  —  the  two 
comical  little  red  shoes,  one  after  the  other. 

They  are  not  the  absurd,  doll-like  shoes  worn  by 
the  Chinese  women  who  compress  their  toes;  the 
Empress,  being  a  Tartar  princess,  did  not  deform 
her  feet,  which  were,  however,  very  small  by 
nature.  No,  these  are  embroidered  slippers  of 
natural  shape,  whose  extravagance  lies  in  the  heels, 
which  are  thirty  centimetres  high  and  extend  over 
the  entire  sole,  growing  larger  at  the  bottom,  like 
the  base  of  a  statue,  to  prevent  the  wearer  from 
falling;  they  are  little  blocks  of  white  leather  of 
the  most  improbable  description. 

I  had  no  idea  that' a  woman's  shoes  could  take 
up  so  much  space.  How  to  get  them  away  with- 
out looking  like  pillagers  in  the  eyes  of  the  ser- 
vants and  guards  we  meet  on  the  way  back  is  the 
question  ? 

Osman  suggests  suspending  them  by  strings  to 
Renaud's  belt  so  that  they  will  hang  concealed  by 
his  long  winter  coat.  This  is  an  admirable  scheme ; 
he  can  even  walk  —  we  make  him  try  it  —  without 
giving  rise  to  suspicion.  I  feel  no  remorse,  and 
I  fancy  that  if  she,  from  afar,  could  witness  the 
scene,  the  still  beautiful  Empress  would  be  the 
first  to  smile. 


i yo     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

We  now  hasten  our  steps  back  to  the  Palace  of 
the  Rotunda,  where  I  have  scarcely  two  hours  of 
daylight  for  my  work  before  the  cold  and  the  night 
come  on. 

Each  time  that  I  return  to  this  palace  I  am 
charmed  with  the  sonorous  silence  of  my  high 
esplanade  and  with  the  top  of  the  crenellated  wall 
surrounding  it,  —  an  artificial  spot  whence  one 
commands  an  extended  view  of  artificial  landscape, 
the  sight  of  which  has  always  been  forbidden,  and 
which,  until  lately,  no  European  has  ever  seen. 

Everything  about  the  place  is  so  Chinese  that 
one  feels  as  though  it  were  the  heart  of  the  yellow 
country,  the  very  quintessence  of  China.  These 
high  gardens  were  a  favorite  resort  for  the  ultra- 
Chinese  reveries  of  an  uncompromising  Empress 
who  possibly  dreamed  of  shutting  her  country  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  world,  as  in  olden  times,  but 
who  to-day  sees  her  empire  crumbling  at  her  feet, 
rotten  to  the  core,  like  her  myriads  of  temples  and 
gilded  wooden  gods. 

The  magical  hour  here  is  when  the  enormous 
red  ball,  which  the  Chinese  sun  appears  to  be  on 
autumn  evenings,  lights  up  the  roofs  of  the  Violet 
City  before  it  disappears.  I  never  fail  to  leave  my 
kiosk  at  this  hour  to  see  once  more  these  effects, 
unique  in  all  the  world. 

Compared   to   this,   what   barbaric   ugliness   is 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY     171 

offered  by  a  bird's-eye  view  of  one  of  our  Euro- 
pean cities,  —  a  mass  of  ugly  gables,  tiles,  and 
dirty  roofs  full  of  chimneys  and  stove-pipes,  and, 
as  a  last  horror,  electric  wires  forming  a  black 
network !  In  China,  where  they  are  all  too  scorn- 
ful of  pavements  and  sewers,  everything  which 
rises  into  the  air,  into  the  domain  of  the  ever- 
watchful  and  protecting  spirits,  is  always  impec- 
cable. And  this  immense  Imperial  retreat,  empty 
to-day,  now  displays  for  me  alone  the  splendor  of 
its  enamelled  roofs. 

In  spite  of  their  age,  these  pyramids  of  yellow 
faience,  carved  with  a  grace  unknown  to  us,  are 
still  brilliant  under  the  red  sun.  At  each  of  the 
corners  of  the  topmost  one  the  ornaments  simulate 
great  wings ;  lower  down,  toward  the  outside,  are 
rows  of  monsters  in  poses  which  are  copied  and 
recopied,  century  after  century,  sacred  and  un- 
changing. These  pyramids  of  yellow  faience  are 
brilliant.  From  far  off,  against  the  ashy  blue  sky, 
clouded  by  the  everlasting  dust,  it  looks  like  a  city 
of  gold;  then,  as  the  sun  sinks,  like  a  city  of 
copper. 

First  the  silence  of  it  all;  then  the  croakings 
that  begin  the  moment  the  ravens  go  to  rest; 
then  the  death-like  cold  that  wraps  this  magnifi- 
cence of  enamel  as  in  a  winding-sheet  as  soon  as 
the  sun  goes  down. 


172     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

To-night  again,  when  we  leave  the  Rotunda 
Palace,  we  pass  the  Palace  of  the  North  without 
stopping,  and  go  on  to  Monsignor  Favier's. 

He  receives  me  in  the  same  white  room,  where 
valises  and  travelling-bags  are  lying  about  on 
the  furniture.  The  bishop  leaves  to-morrow  for 
Europe,  which  he  has  not  seen  for  twelve  years. 
He  is  going  to  Rome  to  see  the  Pope,  and  then  to 
France,  to  raise  money  for  his  suffering  missions. 
His  great  work  of  over  forty  years  is  annihilated, 
fifteen  thousand  of  his  Christian  converts  mas- 
sacred; his  churches,  chapels,  hospitals,  schools, 
are  all  destroyed,  razed  to  the  ground;  his  ceme- 
teries have  been  violated,  and  yet,  discouraged  at 
nothing,  he  wishes  to  begin  all  over  again. 

As  he  conducts  me  across  his  garden  I  admire 
the  beautiful  energy  with  which  he  says,  pointing 
to  the  damaged  cathedral  with  its  broken  cross, 
which  is  the  only  building  left  standing,  gloomily 
outlined  against  the  evening  sky :  "  I  will  rebuild, 
larger  and  higher,  all  the  churches  they  have 
thrown  down,  and  I  hope  that  each  movement  of 
violence  and  hatred  against  us  may  carry  Christi- 
anity one  step  further  on  in  their  country.  Pos- 
sibly they  will  again  destroy  my  churches;  who 
knows?  If  so,  I  will  build  them  up  again,  and  we 
shall  see  whether  they  or  I  will  be  the  first  to  weary 
of  it." 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      173 

He  seems  very  great  to  me  in  his  determination 
and  in  his  faith,  and  I  understand  that  China  must 
reckon  with  this  apostle  of  the  vanguard. 


XII 

SATURDAY,  October  27. 

I  WANTED  to  see  the  Violet  City  and  its  throne 
rooms  once  more  before  going  away,  and  to  enter 
it  this  time,  not  by  round-about  ways  and  back 
doors  and  secret  posterns,  but  by  the  great  avenues 
and  gates  that  have  been  for  centuries  closed,  so 
that  I  might  try  to  imagine  beneath  the  destruc- 
tion of  to-day  what  must  have  been  in  former 
times  the  splendor  of  the  sovereigns'  arrival. 

No  one  of  our  European  capitals  has  been  con- 
ceived and  laid  out  with  such  unity  and  audacity, 
with  the  idea  of  increasing  the  magnificence  of  a 
pageant  always  dominant,  especially  that  of  im- 
parting an  imposing  effect  to  the  appearance  of 
the  Emperor.  The  throne  is  here  the  central  idea. 
This  city,  as  regular  as  a  geometrical  figure,  seems 
to  have  been  created  solely  to  enclose  and  glorify 
the  throne  of  the  Son  of  Heaven,  ruler  of  four 
hundred  millions  of  souls;  to  be  its  peristyle,  to 
lead  up  to  it  by  colossal  avenues  which  recall 
Thebes  or  Babylon.  It  is  easy  to  understand  why 
the  Chinese  ambassadors,  who  came  to  visit  our 


174     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

kings  in  the  times  when  their  immense  country 
was  flourishing,  were  not  particularly  dazzled  by 
the  sight  of  the  Paris  of  those  days,  of  the  Louvre 
or  of  Versailles. 

The  southern  gate  of  Pekin,  by  which  the  pro- 
cessions arrive,  lies  in  the  axis  of  this  throne,  once 
so  awe-inspiring,  and  six  kilometres  of  avenues, 
with  gateways  and  monsters,  lead  up  to  it.  When 
one  has  crossed  the  wall  of  the  Chinese  City  by 
this  southern  gate,  first  passing  two  huge  sanctu- 
aries,— the  Temple  of  Agriculture  and  the  Temple 
of  Heaven,  —  one  follows  for  half  an  hour  the 
great  artery  that  leads  to  a  second  boundary  wall, 
that  of  the  Tartar  City,  higher  and  more  com- 
manding than  the  first.  An  enormous  gate  looms 
up,  surmounted  by  a  black  dungeon,  and  beyond 
this  the  avenue  goes  on,  flawlessly  straight  and 
magnificent,  to  a  third  gate  in  a  third  wall  of 
a  blood-red  color,  —  the  wall  of  the  Imperial 
City. 

Even  after  entering  the  Imperial  City  it  is  still 
some  distance  to  the  throne  to  which  one  is  ad- 
vancing in  a  straight  line,  —  to  this  throne  which 
dominates  everything  and  which  formerly  could 
never  have  been  seen;  but  here  its  presence  is 
indicated  by  the  surroundings.  From  this  point 
the  number  of  marble  monsters  increases;  lions 
of  colossal  size  grin  from  their  pedestals  at  right 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      175 

and  at  left ;  there  are  marble  obelisks  —  monoliths 
encircled  with  dragons  —  with  the  same  heraldic 
beast  always  seated  at  the  summit,  —  a  thin  kind 
of  jackal  with  long  ears,  which  has  the  appear- 
ance of  barking  or  howling  in  the  direction  of  the 
extraordinary  thing  which  is  on  ahead,  namely, 
the  throne  of  the  Emperor.  Walls  are  multiplied, 
— blood-colored  walls  thirty  metres  thick, — which 
cross  the  road,  and  are  surmounted  by  queer  roofs 
and  pierced  by  low  gates,  —  narrow  ambushes  that 
send  a  thrill  of  terror  to  your  heart.  The  defend- 
ing moats  at  the  foot  of  the  walls  have  marble 
bridges,  triple  like  the  gates,  and  from  here  on  the 
road  is  paved  with  superb  big  slabs  crossing  one 
another  at  an  angle,  like  the  boards  of  a  parquetry 
floor. 

After  it  reaches  the  Imperial  City,  this  avenue, 
already  a  league  in  length,  is  absolutely  unfre- 
quented, and  goes  on  even  wider  than  before  be- 
tween long  regular  buildings  intended  for  soldiers' 
barracks.  No  more  little  gilded  houses,  no  more 
small  shops,  no  more  crowds!  At  this  last  im- 
prisoning rampart  the  life  of  the  people  stops, 
under  the  oppression  of  the  throne;  and  at  the 
very  end  of  this  solitary  roadway,  watched  over 
by  the  slender  marble  beasts  surmounting  the 
obelisks,  the  forbidden  centre  of  Pekin  becomes 
visible,  the  retreat  of  the  Son  of  Heaven. 


176     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

The  last  wall  which  appears  ahead  of  us  —  that 
of  the  Violet  City  —  is,  like  the  preceding  ones, 
the  color  of  dried  blood;  there  are  numerous 
watch-towers  upon  it,  whose  roofs  of  dark  enamel 
curve  up  at  the  corners  in  wicked  little  points. 
The  triple  gates  are  too  small,  too  low  for  the 
height  of  the  wall,  too  deep  and  tunnel-like.  Oh, 
the  heaviness,  the  hugeness  of  it  all,  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  design  of  the  roofs,  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  peculiarities  of  the  yellow  colossus ! 

Things  must  have  begun  to  go  to  pieces  here 
centuries  ago;  the  red  plaster  of  the  walls  has 
fallen  in  places,  or  it  has  become  spotted  with 
black;  the  marble  of  the  obelisks  and  the  great 
squinting  lions  could  only  have  grown  so  yellow 
under  the  rains  of  innumerable  seasons,  and  the 
green  that  pushes  through  wherever  the  granite 
is  joined,  marks  with  lines  of  velvet  the  design  of 
the  pavement. 

The  last  triple  gates,  given  over  since  the  de- 
feat to  a  detachment  of  American  soldiers,  will 
open  to-day  for  any  barbarian,  such  as  I,  who 
carries  a  properly  signed  permit. 

Passing  through  the  tunnels,  one  enters  an  im- 
mense marble  whiteness,  —  a  whiteness  that  is 
turning  into  ivory  yellow  and  is  stained  by  the 
autumn  leaves  and  the  wild  growth  that  has  in- 


IN  THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      177 

vaded  this  deserted  spot.  The  place  is  paved  with 
marble,  and  straight  ahead,  rising  like  a  wall,  is 
an  extraordinary  marble  terrace,  on  which  stands 
the  throne  room,  with  its  sturdy  blood-red  col- 
umns and  its  roof  of  old  enamel.  This  white  en- 
closure is  like  a  cemetery  —  so  much  green  has 
pushed  its  way  up  between  the  paving-stones,  — 
where  the  silence  is  broken  only  by  the  magpies 
and  the  crows. 

On  the  ground  are  ranged  blocks  of  bronze  all 
similar  and  cone-like  in  shape;  they  are  simply 
placed  there  among  the  brown  leaves  and  branches, 
and  can  be  moved  about  as  if  they  were  ninepins. 
They  are  used  during  the  formal  entry  of  a  pro- 
cession to  mark  the  line  for  the  flags  and  the 
places  where  even  the  most  magnificent  visitors 
must  prostrate  themselves  when  the  Son '  of 
Heaven  deigns  to  appear,  like  a  god,  on  top  of 
the  marble  terrace,  surrounded  by  banners,  and 
in  one  of  those  costumes  with  breastplate  of  gold, 
monsters'  heads  on  the  shoulders,  and  gold  wings 
in  the  headdress,  whose  superhuman  splendor  has 
been  transmitted  to  us  by  means  of  the  paintings 
in  the  Temple  of  Ancestors. 

One  mounts  to  these  terraces  by  staircases  of 
Babylonian  proportions  and  by  an  "  imperial 
path,"  reserved  for  the  Emperor  alone,  that  is  to 
say,  by  an  inclined  plane  made  of  one  block  of 


178     THE   LAST   DAYS  OF   PEKIN 

marble,  —  one  of  those  untransportable  blocks 
which  men  in  the  past  possessed  the  secret  of 
moving.  The  five-clawed  dragon  displays  his 
sculptured  coils  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of 
this  stone,  which  cuts  the  big  white  staircase  into 
two  equal  parts,  of  which  it  forms  the  centre, 
and  extends  right  to  the  foot  of  the  throne.  No 
Chinese  would  dare  to  walk  on  this  "  path  "  by 
which  the  emperors  descend,  pressing  the  high 
soles  of  their  shoes  on  the  scales  of  the  heraldic 
beast,  in  order  not  to  slip. 

The  room  at  the  top,  open  to-day  to  all  the 
winds  that  blow  and  to  all  the  birds  of  heaven, 
has,  by  way  of  roof,  the  most  prodigious  mass  of 
yellow  faience  that  there  is  in  Pekin,  and  the  most 
bristling  with  monsters;  the  ornaments  at  the 
corners  are  shaped  like  big  extended  wings.  In- 
side, needless  to  say,  there  is  that  blaze  of  reddish 
gold  which  always  pursues  one  in  Chinese  palaces. 
On  the  ceiling,  which  is  of  an  intricate  design, 
dragons  are  everywhere  entwined,  entangled,  in- 
terwoven; their  claws  and  their  horns  appear, 
mingled  with  the  clouds,  and  one  of  them,  which 
is  detached  from  the  mass  and  seems  ready  to  fall, 
holds  in  his  hanging  jaw  a  gold  sphere  directly 
above  the  throne.  The  throne,  which  is  of  red  and 
gold  lacquer,  rises  in  the  centre  of  this  shadowy 
place  on  a  sort  of  platform;  two  large  screens 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL  CITY      179 

made  of  feathers,  emblems  of  sovereignty,  stand 
behind  it,  and  along  the  steps  which  lead  up  to 
it  are  incense-burners  similar  to  those  placed  in 
pagodas  at  the  feet  of  the  gods. 

Like  the  avenues  through  which  I  have  come, 
like  the  series  of  bridges  and  the  triple  gates,  this 
throne  is  in  the  exact  centre  of  Pekin,  and  repre- 
sents its  soul;  were  it  not  for  all  these  walls,  all 
these  various  enclosures,  the  Emperor,  seated  there 
on  this  pedestal  of  lacquer  and  marble,  could  see 
to  the  farthest  extremities  of  the  city,  to  the  far- 
thest openings  in  the  surrounding  walls ;  the  tribu- 
tary sovereigns  who  come  there,  the  ambassadors, 
the  armies,  from  the  moment  of  their  entrance  into 
Pekin  by  the  southern  gate,  would  be,  so  to  speak, 
under  the  inspiration  of  his  invisible  eyes. 

On  the  floor  a  thick  carpet  of  imperial  yellow 
reproduces  in  a  much  worn  design  the  battle  of 
the  chimseras,  the  nightmare  carved  upon  the  ceil- 
ing; it  is  a  carpet  made  in  one  piece,  an  enor- 
mous carpet  of  a  wool  so  thick  and  close  that  one's 
feet  sink  into  it  as  on  a  grassy  lawn ;  but  it  is  torn, 
eaten  by  moths,  with  piles  of  gray  dung  lying 
about  on  it  in  patches,  —  for  magpies,  pigeons, 
and  crows  have  made  their  nests  in  the  roof,  and 
on  my  arrival  the  place  is  filled  with  the  whirring 
of  frightened  wings  up  high  against  the  shin- 


i8o    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

ing  beams,  amongst  the  golden  dragons  and  the 
clouds. 

The  incomprehensible  fact  about  this  palace, 
to  us  uninitiated  barbarians,  is  that  there  are 
three  of  these  rooms  exactly  alike,  with  ,the 
same  throne,  the  same  carpet,  the  same  orna- 
ments, in  the  same  places;  they  are  preceded  by 
the  same  great  marble  courts  and  are  constructed 
on  the  same  marble  terraces;  you  reach  them 
by  the  same  staircases  and  by  the  same  imperial 
paths. 

Why  should  there  be  three  of  them?  For,  of 
necessity,  the  first  conceals  the  two  others,  and  in 
order  to  pass  from  the  first  to  the  second,  or  from 
the  second  to  the  third,  you  must  go  down  each 
time  into  a  vast  gloomy  court  without  any  view 
and  then  come  up  again  between  the  piles  of  ivory- 
colored  marble,  so  superb,  yet  so  monotonous  and 
oppressive ! 

There  must  be  some  mysterious  reason  con- 
nected with  the  use  of  the  number  three.  This 
repetition  produced  on  our  disordered  imagina- 
tions an  effect  analogous  to  that  of  the  three  simi- 
lar sanctuaries  and  the  three  similar  courts  in  the 
great  Temple  of  the  Lamas. 

I  had  already  seen  the  private  apartments  of  the 
young  Emperor.  Those  of  the  Empress  —  for  she 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      181 

had  apartments  here  too,  in  addition  to  the  frail 
palaces  her  fancy  had  scattered  over  the  parks  of 
the  Yellow  City  —  those  of  the  Empress  are  less 
gloomy  and  much  less  dark.  Room  after  room 
exactly  alike,  with  large  windows  and  superb  yel- 
low enamelled  roofs.  Each  one  has  its  marble 
steps,  guarded  by  two  lions  all  shining  with  gold, 
and  the  little  gardens  which  separate  them  are 
filled  with  bronze  ornaments,  heraldic  beasts,  phoe- 
nixes, or  crouching  monsters. 

Inside  are  yellow  silks  and  square  arm-chairs 
of  the  form  consecrated  by  time,  unchanging  as 
China  itself.  On  the  chests,  on  the  tables,  a  quan- 
tity of  precious  articles  are  placed  in  small  glass 
cases,  —  because  of  the  perpetual  dust  of  Pekin,  — 
and  this  makes  them  as  cheerless  as  mummies  and 
casts  over  the  apartment  the  chill  of  a  museum. 
There  are  many  artificial  bouquets  of  chimerical 
flowers  of  neutral  shades  in  amber,  jade,  agate, 
and  moonstones. 

The  great  and  inimitable  luxury  of  these  palace 
rooms  consists  of  the  series  of  ebony  arches  so 
carved  as  to  seem  a  bower  of  dark  leaves.  In 
what  far-away  forest  did  the  trees  grow  that  per- 
mitted such  groves  to  be  created  out  of  one  single 
piece?  And  by  means  of  what  implements  and 
what  patience  are  they  able  to  carve  each  stem  and 
each  leaf  of  light  bamboo,  or  each  fine  needle  of 


1 82     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

the  cedar,  out  of  the  very  heart  of  the  tree,  and  to 
add  to  them  birds  and  butterflies  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite workmanship? 

Behind  the  sleeping-room  of  the  Empress  a 
kind  of  dark  oratory  is  filled  with  Buddhistic 
divinities  on  altars.  An  exquisite  odor  still  re- 
mains, left  behind  her  by  the  beautiful,  passion- 
ate, elegant  old  woman  who  was  queen.  Among 
these  gods  is  a  small  creature  made  of  very  old 
wood,  quite  worn  and  dull  from  the  loss  of  gild- 
ing, who  wears  about  his  neck  a  collar  of  fine 
pearls.  In  front  of  him  is  a  bunch  of  dried 
flowers,  —  a  last  offering,  one  of  the  guardian 
eunuchs  informs  me,  made  by  the  Empress  to  this 
little  old  Buddha,  who  was  her  favorite  fetish,  at 
the  supreme  moment  before  her  flight  from  the 
Violet  City. 

To-day  I  have  reached  this  retreat  by  a  very 
different  route  from  the  one  I  took  on  my  first 
pilgrimage  here,  and  in  going  out  I  must  now 
pass  through  the  quarters  where  all  is  walled  and 
rewalled,  the  gates  barricaded  and  guarded  by 
more  and  more  horrible  monsters.  Are  there  hid- 
den princesses  and  treasures  here?  There, is  al- 
ways the  same  bloody  color  on  the  walls,  the  same 
yellow  faience  on  the  roofs,  and  more  horns,  claws, 
cruel  forms,  hyena  smiles,  projecting  teeth,  and 
squinting  eyes  than  ever;  the  most  unimportant 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      183 

things,  like  bolts  and  locks,  have  features  that 
simulate  hatred  and  death. 

Everything  is  perishing  from  old  age ;  the  stones 
are  worn  away,  the  wooden  doors  are  falling  into 
dust.  There  are  some  old  shadowy  courts  that  are 
given  up  to  white-bearded  octogenarian  servants, 
who  have  built  cabins,  where  they  live  like  re- 
cluses, occupied  in  training  magpies  or  in  culti- 
vating sickly  flowers  in  pots  under  the  eyes  of  the 
everlasting  grinning  old  marble  and  bronze  beasts. 
No  cloistered  green,  no  monk's  cell,  was  ever  half 
so  gloomy  as  these  little  courts,  so  shut  in  and  so 
dark,  overshadowed  for  centuries  by  the  uncon- 
trolled caprices  of  the  Chinese  emperors.  The  in- 
exorable sentence,  "  Leave  hope  behind,  all  those 
who  enter  here,"  seems  to  belong  here;  as  one 
proceeds,  the  passages  grow  narrower  and  more 
intricate ;  it  seems  as  though  there  were  no  escape, 
as  though  the  great  locks  on  the  doors  would  re- 
fuse to  work,  as  though  the  walls  would  close  in 
upon  and  crush  you. 

Yet  here  I  am  almost  outside,  outside  the  in- 
terior wall  and  through  the  massive  gates  that 
quickly  close  behind  me.  Now  I  am  between  the 
second  rampart  and  the  first,  both  equally  ter- 
rible. I  am  on  the  road  which  makes  a  circle 
around  this  city,  —  a  sort  of  ominous  passageway 
of  great  length  that  runs  between  two  dark  red 


1 84     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

walls  and  which  seems  to  meet  in  the  distance 
ahead  of  me.  Human  bones  and  old  rags  that 
have  been  parts  of  the  clothing  of  soldiers  are 
scattered  here  and  there,  and  one  sees  two  or  three 
crows  and  one  of  the  flesh-eating  dogs  prowling 
about. 

When  the  boards  which  barricade  the  outside 
gate  are  let  down  for  me  (the  gate  guarded  by 
the  Japanese),  I  discover,  as  though  on  awaken- 
ing from  a  dreadful  dream,  that  I  am  in  the  park 
of  the  Yellow  City,  in  open  space  under  the  great 
cedars. 

XIII 

SUNDAY,  October  28. 

THE  Island  of  Jade,  on  the  Lake  of  the  Lotus,  is 
a  rock,  artificial  perhaps,  in  spite  of  its  mountain- 
ous proportions.  Old  trees  cling  to  its  sides,  and 
old  temples  loom  up  toward  the  sky,  while  crown- 
ing all  is  a  sort  of  tower  or  dungeon  of  colossal 
size  and  of  a  mysterious  Baroque  design.  It  may 
be  seen  from  all  points ;  its  excessively  Chinese  out- 
lines dominate  Pekin,  and  high  up  on  it  stands  a 
terrible  idol  whose  threatening  attitude  and  hideous 
smile  look  down  upon  the  city.  This  idol  our 
soldiers  call  the  "  big  devil  of  China." 

This  morning  I  am  climbing  up  to  visit  this 
"  big  devil." 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      185 

A  bridge  of  white  marble  across  the  reeds  and 
lotus  gives  access  to  the  Island  of  Jade.  Both  ends 
of  the  bridge  are  guarded,  needless  to  say,  by 
marble  monsters  who  leer  and  squint  at  any  one 
who  has  the  audacity  to  pass.  The  shores  of 
the  island  rise  abruptly  underneath  the  cedar 
branches,  and  one  begins  immediately  to  climb  by 
means  of  steps  and  rock-cut  paths.  Among  the 
severe  trees  is  a  series  of  marble  terraces  with 
bronze  incense-burners  and  occasional  pagodas, 
out  of  whose  obscurity  enormous  golden  idols 
shine  forth. 

This  Island  of  Jade,  on  account  of  its  position 
of  strategic  importance,  is  under  military  occupa- 
tion by  a  company  of  our  marines. 

As  there  is  no  shelter  other  than  the  pagodas, 
and  no  camp  beds  other  than  the  sacred  tables,  our 
soldiers  have  had  to  put  out  of  doors  the  entire 
population  of  secondary  gods  in  order  to  make 
room  to  lie  down  on  the  beautiful  red  tables  at 
night,  and  have  left  only  the  big,  solemn  idols  on 
their  thrones.  So  here  they  are  by  the  hundreds, 
by  the  thousands,  lined  up  on  the  white  terraces 
like  playthings.  Inside  the  temples  the  guns  of  our 
men  are  lying  about,  and  their  blankets  and  their 
clothing  hang  on  the  walls,  all  around  the  big  idols 
who  have  been  left  in  their  places.  What  a  heavy 
smell  of  leather  they  have  already  introduced  into 


1 86     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

these  closed  sanctuaries,  accustomed  only  to  the 
odor  of  sandalwood  and  incense! 

Through  the  twisted  branches  of  the  cedars  the 
horizon,  which  is  occasionally  visible,  is  all  green, 
turning  to  an  autumn  brown.  It  is  a  wood,  an 
infinite  wood,  out  of  which  here  and  there  roofs 
of  yellow  faience  emerge.  This  wood  is  Pekin; 
not  at  all  as  one  imagines  it,  but  Pekin  seen  from 
the  top  of  a  very  sacred  place  where  no  Europeans 
were  ever  allowed  to  come. 

The  rocky  soil  grows  thinner  and  thinner  as  one 
rises  toward  the  "  big  devil  of  China,"  as  one 
approaches  the  peak  of  the  isolated  cone  known  as 
the  Island  of  Jade. 

This  morning  I  meet,  as  I  climb,  a  curious  band 
of  pilgrims  who  are  coming  down;  they  are 
Lazarist  missionaries  in  mandarin  costume,  wear- 
ing long  queues.  With  them  are  several  young 
Chinese  Catholic  priests  who  seem  frightened  at 
being  there ;  as  though,  in  spite  of  the  Christianity 
superimposed  upon  their  hereditary  beliefs,  they 
were  committing  some  sacrilege  by  their  very 
presence  in  so  forbidden  a  spot. 

At  the  foot  of  the  dungeon  which  crowns  these 
rocks  is  the  kiosk  of  faience  and  marble  where  the 
"  big  devil "  dwells.  It  is  high  up  on  a  narrow 
terrace  in  the  pure,  clear  air,  from  which  one  over- 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      187 

looks  a  mass  of  trees  scarcely  veiled  to-day  by  the 
usual  mist  of  dust  and  sun. 

I  enter  the  kiosk  where  the  "  big  devil  "  stands, 
the  sole  guest  of  this  aerial  region.  Oh,  horrible 
creature  that  he  is!  He  is  of  superhuman  size, 
cast  in  bronze.  Like  Shiva,  god  of  death,  he 
dances  on  dead  bodies ;  he  has  five  or  six  atrocious 
faces  whose  multiplied  grins  are  almost  intolerable ; 
he  wears  a  collar  of  skulls,  and  is  gesticulating 
with  forty  arms  that  hold  instruments  of  torture 
or  heads  severed  from  their  bodies. 

Such  is  the  protecting  divinity  chosen  by  the 
Chinese  to  watch  over  this  city,  and  placed  high 
above  all  their  pyramidal  faience  roofs,  high  above 
all  their  pagodas  and  towers,  as  we  in  times  of 
faith  would  have  placed  the  Christ  or  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  It  is  a  tangible  symbol  of  their  profound 
cruelty,  the  index  of  the  inexplicable  cleft  in  the 
brain  of  these  people  ordinarily  so  tractable  and 
gentle,  so  open  to  the  charm  of  little  children  and 
of  flowers,  but  who  are  capable  all  at  once  of  glee- 
fully becoming  executioners  and  torturers  of  the 
most  horrible  description. 

At  my  feet  Pekin  seems  like  a  wood !  I  had  been 
told  of  this  incomprehensible  effect,  but  my  ex- 
pectations are  surpassed.  Outside  of  the  parks 
in  the  Imperial  City,  it  has  not  seemed  to  me  that 
there  were  many  trees  around  the  houses,  that  is, 


1 88     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

in  the  gardens  and  in  the  streets.  But  from  here 
all  is  submerged  in  green.  Even  beyond  the  walls 
whose  black  outlines  may  be  seen  in  the  distance 
there  are  more  woods,  —  endless  woods.  Toward 
the  east  alone  lies  the  gray  desert  which  I  came 
through  that  snowy  morning,  and  toward  the 
north  rise  the  Mongolian  mountains,  charming, 
translucent,  and  purple  against  the  pale  blue  sky. 
The  great  straight  arteries  of  the  city,  drawn 
according  to  a  singular  plan,  with  a  regularity  and 
an  amplitude  to  be  found  in  none  of  the  Euro- 
pean capitals,  resemble,  from  the  point  where  I 
stand,  the  avenues  in  a  forest,  —  avenues  bor- 
dered by  various  complicated,  delicate  little  fret- 
work houses  of  gray  pasteboard  or  of  gilt  paper. 
Many  of  these  arteries  are  dead;  in  those  which 
are  still  living,  this  fact  is  indicated  from  my  point 
of  view  by  the  constant  moving  of  little  brown 
animals  along  the  earth,  recalling  the  migration 
of  ants;  these  caravans,  which  move  slowly  and 
quietly  away,  are  scattered  to  the  four  corners  of 
China. 

A  feeling  that  is  akin  to  regret  is  mingled  with 
my  afternoon's  work  in  the  solitude  of  my  lofty 
palace,  —  regret  for  what  is  about  to  end,  for  I 
am  now  on  the  eve  of  departure.  And  it  will  be  an 
end  without  any  possible  beginning  again,  for  if 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      189 

I  should  return  to  Pekin  this  palace  would  be 
closed  to  me,  or,  in  any  case,  I  should  never  again 
find  here  such  charming  solitude. 

Yet  this  distant,  inaccessible  spot,  of  which  it 
once  would  have  seemed  madness  to  say  that  I 
should  ever  make  it  my  dwelling-place,  has  already 
become  very  familiar  to  me,  as  well  as  all  that 
belongs  here  and  all  that  has  happened  here,  —  the 
presence  of  the  great  alabaster  goddess  in  the  dark 
temple,  the  daily  visit  of  the  cat,  the  silence  of  the 
surroundings,  the  mournful  light  of  the  October 
sun,  the  agonies  of  the  last  butterflies  as  they  beat 
against  my  window-panes,  the  manoeuvres  of  the 
sparrows  whose  nests  are  in  the  enamelled  roofs, 
the  blowing  of  the  dead  leaves,  and  the  fall  of  the 
little  balsam  needles  on  the  pavement  of  the  es- 
planade whenever  the  wind  blows.  What  a  strange 
destiny,  when  you  think  of  it,  has  made  me  master 
here  for  a  few  days ! 

The  splendors  of  our  long  gallery  in  the  Palace 
of  the  North  are  a  thing  of  the  past.  It  is  already 
divided  by  light  wooden  partitions  which  may  be 
removed  without  difficulty  if  ever  the  Empress 
thinks  of  returning,  but  which,  for  the  time  being, 
cut  it  up  into  rooms  and  offices.  There  are  still 
a  few  magnificent  bibelots  in  the  part  which  is  to 
be  the  general's  salon,  but  elsewhere  it  has  all  been 
simplified;  the  silks,  the  pottery,  the  screens,  the 


bronzes,  duly  catalogued,  have  been  removed  to 
a  storehouse.  Our  soldiers  have  even  found  Eu- 
ropean seats  among  the  palace  reserves,  which 
they  have  taken  to  the  future  apartments  of  the 
staff  to  make  them  more  habitable.  They  consist 
of  sofas  and  arm-chairs,  vaguely  Henry  II.  in 
style,  covered  with  old-gold  plush  that  reminds 
one  of  a  provincial  hotel. 

I  expect  to  leave  to-morrow  morning.  When 
the  dinner  hour  unites  us  once  again,  Captain  C. 
and  I,  seated  at  our  little  ebony  table,  both  feel 
a  touch  of  melancholy  at  seeing  how  things  have 
changed  about  us,  and  how  quickly  our  dream  of 
being  Chinese  sovereigns  is  over. 

MONDAY,  October  29. 

I  have  postponed  my  departure  for  twenty-four 
hours  in  order  to  meet  General  Vayron,  who  re- 
turns to  Pekin  this  evening,  and  undertake  his 
commissions  for  the  admiral.  So  I  have  an  unex- 
pected half-day  to  spend  in  my  high  mirador,  and 
hope  for  a  last  visit  from  my  cat,  who  will  find 
me  no  more  in  my  accustomed  place,  neither  to- 
morrow nor  ever  again.  It  is  now  growing  colder 
each  day,  so  that  in  any  case  my  work-room  would 
not  be  possible  much  longer. 

Before  the  doors  of  this  palace  close  behind  me 
forever  I  want  to  take  a  last  walk  into  all  the  wind- 


IN   THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      191 

ings  of  the  terraces,  into  all  the  kiosks,  so  dainty 
and  so  charming,  in  which  the  Empress  no  doubt 
concealed  her  reveries  and  her  amours. 


As  I  go  to  take  leave  of  the  great  white  goddess, 
—  the  sun  already  setting,  and  the  roofs  of  the 
Violet  City  bathed  in  the  red  golds  of  evening,  — 
I  find  the  aspect  of  things  about  here  changed ;  the 
soldiers  who  were  on  guard  at  the  gate  have 
climbed  to  the  top  and  are  putting  her  house  in 
order;  they  have  carried  off  the  thousand  and  one 
boxes  of  porcelains  and  girandoles,  the  broken 
vases  and  the  bouquets,  and  have  carefully  swept 
the  place.  The  alabaster  goddess,  deliciously  pale 
in  her  golden  robes,  still  smiles,  more  than  ever 
solitary  in  her  empty  temple. 

The  sun  of  this  last  day  sets  in  little  wintry 
clouds  that  are  cold  to  look  at,  and  the  Mongolian 
wind  makes  me  shiver  in  my  thick  cloak  as  I  cross 
the  Marble  Bridge  on  my  return  to  the  Palace  of 
the  North,  where  the  general  with  his  escort  of 
cavalry  has  just  arrived. 

TUESDAY,  October  30. 

On  horseback,  at  seven  in  the  morning,  a  change- 
lessly  beautiful  sun  and  an  icy  wind.  I  start  off 
with  my  two  servants,  young  Toum,  and  a  small 
escort  of  two  African  chasseurs,  who  will  accom- 


192 

pany  me  as  far  as  my  junk.  We  have  about  six 
kilometres  to  cover  before  reaching  the  dreary 
country.  We  first  cross  the  Marble  Bridge,  then, 
leaving  the  great  Imperial  wood,  pass  through 
ruined,  squalid  Pekin  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

At  length,  after  going  through  the  deep  gates 
in  the  high  outer  ramparts,  we  reach  the  outside 
desert,  swept  by  a  terrible  wind;  and  here  the 
enormous  Mongolian  camels,  with  lions'  manes, 
perpetually  file  past  in  a  procession,  making  our 
horses  start  with  fear. 

We  reach  Tong-Tchow  in  the  afternoon,  and 
silently  cross  it,  ruined  and  dead,  until  we  come 
to  the  banks  of  the  Pei-Ho.  There  I  find  my  junk 
under  the  care  of  a  soldier,  —  the  same  junk  that 
brought  me  from  Tien-Tsin  with  all  the  necessities 
for  our  life  on  the  water  intact.  Nothing  has  been 
taken  during  my  absence  but  my  stock  of  pure 
water,  —  a  serious  loss  for  us,  but  a  pardonable 
theft  at  a  time  like  this,  when  the  river  water  is 
full  of  danger  for  our  soldiers.  As  for  us,  we 
can  drink  hot  tea. 

We  call  at  the  office  of  the  commissary  to  get 
our  rations  and  to  have  our  papers  signed;  then 
we  pull  up  our  anchor  from  the  infected  bank  that 
breathes  of  pestilence  and  death,  and  begin  to  float 
down  the  river  toward  the  sea. 

Although  it  is  colder  than  it  was  coming  up,  it 


IN   THE    IMPERIAL   CITY      193 

is  almost  amusing  to  take  up  a  nomadic  life  again 
in  our  little  sarcophagus  with  its  matting  roof,  and 
to  plunge  once  more,  as  night  falls,  into  the  im- 
mense green  solitude  of  the  dark  banks  as  we 
glide  along  between  them. 

WEDNESDAY,  October  31. 

The  morning  sun  shines  on  the  bridge  of  a  junk 
that  is  covered  with  a  thin  coating  of  ice.  The 
thermometer  marks  8°  above  zero,  and  the  wind 
blows,  cruel  and  violent,  but  health-giving,  we 
feel  sure. 

We  have  the  swift  current  with  us,  so  that  the 
desolate  shores,  with  their  ruins  and  their  dead,  slip 
by  much  more  rapidly  than  on  our  other  journey. 
We  walk  on  the  tow-path  from  morning  until 
night  in  order  to  keep  warm,  almost  abreast  of  the 
Chinese  who  are  pulling  the  rope.  There  is  a  ful- 
ness of  physical  life  in  the  wind;  one  feels  light 
and  full  of  energy. 

THURSDAY,  November  i. 

Our  boat  trip  lasts  only  forty-eight  hours  this 
time,  and  we  have  but  two  frosty  nights  to  sleep 
under  a  matting  roof  through  which  the  shining 
stars  are  visible,  for  toward  the  end  of  the  second 
day  we  enter  Tien-Tsin. 

Tien-Tsin,  where  we  have  to  find  a  shelter  for 
the  night,  is  horribly  repopulated  since  our  last 

13 


i94     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

stay  here.  It  takes  us  almost  two  hours  to  row 
across  the  immense  city,  working  our  way  amongst 
myriads  of  canoes  and  junks.  Both  banks  are 
crowded  with  Chinese,  howling,  gesticulating, 
buying,  and  selling,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  few 
of  the  walls  or  roofs  of  the  houses  are  left  intact. 


FRIDAY,  November  2. 

In  spite  of  the  cold  wind  and  the  dust,  which 
continues  to  blow  pitilessly,  we  arrive  at  Taku,  — 
horrible  city,  —  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  by  mid- 
day. But  alas!  it  will  be  impossible  to  join  the 
squadron  to-day;  the  tides  are  unfavorable,  the 
bar  in  bad  condition,  the  sea  too  high.  Perhaps 
to-morrow  or  the  next  day. 

I  had  almost  had  time  to  forget  the  difficulties 
and  uncertainties  of  life  in  this  place,  —  the  per- 
petual anxiety  in  regard  to  the  weather,  the  con- 
cern for  this  or  that  boat  laden  with  soldiers  or 
supplies,  which  is  running  some  danger  outside  or 
which  may  founder  on  the  bar ;  complications  and 
dangers  of  all  sorts  connected  with  the  disembark- 
ing of  troops,  —  a  thing  which  seems  so  simple 
when  looked  at  from  a  distance,  but  which  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  world  of  difficulties  in  such  places. 


IN    THE   IMPERIAL   CITY      195 

SATURDAY,  November  3. 

En  route  this  morning  for  the  squadron  out  on 
the  open  sea.  At  the  end  of  a  half  hour  the  sin- 
ister shore  of  China  disappears  behind  us,  and  the 
smoke-stacks  of  the  iron-clads  begin  to  pour  forth 
their  black  smoke  upon  the  horizon.  We  fear  we 
shall  have  to  turn  back,  the  weather  is  so  bad. 

Dripping  with  fog,  however,  we  arrive  at  last, 
and  I  jump  aboard  the  Redoutable,  where  my 
comrades,  with  no  taste  of  high  life  in  China  to 
break  the  monotony,  have  been  at  work  for  forty 
days. 


V 

RETURN   TO   NING-HIA 

SIX  weeks  later.  A  cold  and  gloomy  morn- 
ing. After  having  been  at  Tien-Tsin,  Pekin, 
and  other  places,  where  so  many  strange  and 
gloomy  things  have  come  to  our  notice,  here  we 
are  back  again  at  Ning-Hia,  which  we  have  had 
time  to  forget;  our  boat  has  gone  back  to  its  old 
moorings,  and  we  return  to  the  French  fort. 

It  is  cold  and  dull;  autumn,  which  is  so  severe 
in  these  parts,  has  brought  with  it  sudden  frosts; 
the  birches  and  willows  have  lost  all  their  leaves, 
and  the  sky  is  cold  and  lowering. 

The  Zouaves  who  are  living  in  the  fort,  and 
who  came  so  light-heartedly  only  a  month  ago  to 
take  the  place  of  our  sailors,  have  already  buried 
some  of  their  number,  who  died  of  typhus  or  were 
shot.  This  very  morning  we  have  paid  the  last 
honors  to  two  of  them,  killed  by  Russian  balls  in 
a  particularly  tragic  manner,  all  the  result  of  a 
mistake. 

The  sandy  roads  strewn  with  yellow  leaves  are 
solitary.  The  Cossacks  have  evacuated  their 


RETURN   TO   NING-HIA       197 

camps  and  disappeared  to  the  other  side  of  the 
Great  Wall,  in  the  direction  of  Manchuria.  The 
agitation  of  the  earlier  days  is  over;  as  well  as 
the  confusion  and  the  joyous  crowds;  all  have 
gone  into  winter  quarters  in  the  places  assigned 
to  them,  and  as  the  peasants  of  the  vicinity  have 
not  returned,  their  villages  are  abandoned  and 
empty. 

The  fort,  though  still  ornamented  with  Chinese 
emblems,  now  bears  a  French  name;  it  is  called 
"  Fort  Admiral-Pottier."  As  we  entered  trumpets 
resounded  for  the  admiral,  and  the  Zouaves,  ranged 
under  the  guns,  looked  with  respectful  sorrow  at 
their  chief,  who  had  just  honored  with  his  pres- 
ence the  funeral  services  of  two  soldiers. 

As  soon  as  we  cross  the  threshold  we  feel  quite 
unexpectedly  as  though  we  were  on  French  soil; 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  by  what  spell  these  Zouaves 
have  made  of  this  place  and  its  surroundings  in 
one  short  month,  something  which  is  like  a  bit  of 
home. 

There  have  been  no  great  changes;  they  have 
been  content  with  removing  Chinese  filth,  with 
putting  the  war  supplies  in  order,  with  white- 
washing their  quarters,  and  with  organizing  a 
bakery  where  the  bread  has  a  good  smell,  and  a 
hospital  where  the  many  wounded,  alas,  and  the 
sick,  sleep  on  very  clean  little  camp  beds.  All 


198     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

this  at  once  and  quite  inexplicably  creates  a  feel- 
ing that  one  is  in  France  again. 

In  the  court  of  honor  in  the  centre  of  the  fort, 
in  front  of  the  door  leading  to  the  room  where  the 
mandarin  is  enthroned,  two  gun-carriages  stand, 
unharnessed.  Their  wheels  are  decorated  with 
leaves  and  they  are  covered  over  with  white  sheets, 
upon  which  are  scattered  poor  little  bouquets  fas- 
tened on  with  pins.  They  are  the  last  flowers 
from  the  neighboring  Chinese  gardens,  —  poor 
chrysanthemums  and  stunted  roses  touched  by 
the  frost,  all  arranged  with  touching  care  and 
kindly  soldierly  awkwardness,  for  the  dead  com- 
rades who  lie  there  on  these  carriages  in  coffins 
covered  with  the  French  flag. 

It  is  a  surprise  to  find  this  vast  mandarin's 
room  transformed  by  the  Zouaves  into  a  chapel. 
A  strange  chapel  truly!  On  the  whitewashed 
walls  the  vests  of  Chinese  soldiers  are  fastened 
up  and  arranged  like  trophies  with  sabres  and 
poniards,  while  the  candlesticks  that  stand  on 
the  white  altar-cloth  are  made  of  shell  and  bay- 
onets, —  thus  naively  and  charmingly  does  the 
soldier  know  how  to  manage  when  he  is  in 
exile. 

A  military  mass  begins  with  trumpet  blasts  that 
make  the  Zouaves  fall  upon  their  knees;  mass  is 
said  by  the  chaplain  of  the  squadron,  in  mourning 


RETURN   TO    NING-HIA       199 

dress,  —  a  mass  for  the  dead,  for  the  two  who  are 
asleep  on  the  wagons  near  the  door  decorated  with 
late  flowers.  From  the  court  Bach's  Prelude, 
played  on  muffled  brass,  rises  like  a  prayer,  the 
dominant  note  in  this  mingling  of  home  and  for- 
eign land,  of  funeral  service  and  gray  morning. 

Then  they  depart  for  a  near-by  enclosure  which 
we  have  turned  into  a  cemetery.  Mules  are  har- 
nessed to  the  heavy  gun-carriages,  the  admiral 
himself  leading  the  procession  along  the  sandy 
paths  where  the  Zouaves  form  a  double  row,  pre- 
senting arms. 

The  sun  does  not  pierce  the  autumn  clouds  that 
lower  this  morning  over  the  burial  of  these  chil- 
dren of  France.  It  is  cold  and  gloomy,  and  the 
birches  and  willows  of  the  desolate  country  con- 
tinue to  drop  their  leaves  upon  us. 

This  improvised  cemetery,  surrounded  by  so 
much  that  is  exotic,  has  also  taken  on  a  French 
air,  —  no  doubt  because  of  the  brave  home  names 
inscribed  on  wooden  crosses  that  mark  the  new- 
made  graves ;  because  of  pots  of  chrysanthemums 
brought  by  comrades  to  these  sad  mounds  of  earth. 
And  yet  just  beyond  the  wall  which  protects  our 
dead,  that  other  wall  which  rises  and  is  indefi- 
nitely prolonged  into  the  gray  November  coun- 
try, is  the  Great  Wall  of  China;  and  we  are  in 
exile  far,  frightfully  far  from  home. 


200     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

Now  the  coffins  have  been  lowered,  each  one  to 
its  hole,  adding  to  the  already  long  row  of  new- 
made  graves;  all  the  Zouaves  approach  in  serried 
rank  while  their  commandant  recalls  in  a  few 
words  how  these  two  fell. 

"  It  was  not  far  from  here.  The  company  was 
marching  without  suspicion  in  the  direction  of  a 
fort  from  which  the  Russian  flag  had  just  been 
hoisted,  when  suddenly  balls  began  to  rain  like 
hail.  The  Russians  behind  their  ramparts  were 
new-comers  who  had  not  seen  the  Zouaves,  and 
who  mistook  their  red  hats  for  the  caps  of  the 
Boxers.  Before  they  recognized  their  mistake 
several  of  our  men  lay  on  the  ground;  seven, 
one  of  them  a  captain,  were  wounded,  and  these 
two  were  dead.  One  of  them  was  the  sergeant 
who  waved  our  flag  in  an  effort  to  stop  the 
firing." 

Then  the  admiral  addresses  the  Zouaves,  whose 
eyes,  all  in  a  row,  are  filled  with  tears ;  and  as  he 
steps  forward  upon  the  pile  of  loose  earth  so  that 
he  may  reach  the  graves  with  his  sword,  and  says 
to  those  who  lie  there,  "  I  salute  you  as  soldiers 
for  the  last  time,"  a  real  sob  is  audible,  heartfelt, 
and  unrestrained,  from  the  breast  of  a  big  hearty 
fellow  who  looks  to  be  not  the  least  brave  among 
those  in  the  ranks. 


RETURN   TO   NING-HIA       201 

Beside  all  this,  how  pitifully,  how  ironically 
empty  are  many  of  the  pompous  ceremonies  at 
official  burials  with  their  fine  discourses! 

In  these  times  of  weakness  and  mediocrity, 
when  nothing  is  sacred  and  the  future  is  full  of 
fear,  happy  are  they  who  are  cut  down  where 
they  stand ;  happy  are  they  who,  young  and  pure, 
fall  for  the  sake  of  adorable  dreams  of  country 
and  of  honor,  who  are  borne  away  wrapped  in  the 
modest  flag  of  their  country  and  greeted  as  sol- 
diers with  simple  words  that  bring  tears  to  the 
eyes. 


VI 

PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME 

I 

THURSDAY,  April  18,  1901. 

THE   terrible   Chinese   winter   which   has 
pursued  us  for  four  months  in  this  ice- 
filled  gulf  of  Pekin  is  over,  and  here  we 
are  again  at  our  wretched  post,  having  returned 
with  the  spring  to  the  thick  and  yellow  waters  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Pei-Ho. 

To-day  wireless  telegraphy,  by  a  series  of  im- 
perceptible vibrations  gathered  at  the  top  of  the 
Redoutable's  mast,  informs  us  that  the  palace  of 
the  Empress,  occupied  by  Field-Marshal  von  Wal- 
dersee,  was  burned  last  night,  and  that  the  Ger- 
man chief-of-staff  perished  in  the  flames. 

We  were  the  only  ones  of  all  the  allied  squad- 
rons who  received  this  notice,  and  the  admiral  at 
once  ordered  me  to  depart  for  Pekin  to  offer  his 
condolences,  and  to  represent  him  at  the  funeral 
ceremonies. 

There  was  just  twenty-five  minutes  for  my 
preparations,  for  the  packing  of  luggage,  great 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       203 

and  small;  for  the  boat  which  must  take  me 
ashore  cannot  wait  without  risk  of  missing  the 
tide,  and  so  being  unable  to  cross  the  bar  of  the 
river  to-night.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  my  foot 
is  on  the  soil  of  horrible  Taku,  near  the  French 
quarter,  where  I  must  spend  the  night. 


FRIDAY,  April  19. 

The  railway  destroyed  by  the  Boxers  has  been 
rebuilt,  and  the  train  which  I  take  this  morning 
goes  straight  to  Pekin,  arriving  there  about  four 
o'clock  this  afternoon,  —  a  rapid  and  common- 
place journey,  very  different  from  the  one  I 
made  at  the  beginning  of  winter  by  junk  and 
on  horseback. 

The  spring  rains  have  not  begun ;  the  chill  ver- 
dure of  May,  the  sorghos  and  the  young  willows, 
later  than  they  are  in  our  climate,  emerge  with 
great  difficulty  from  the  dry  soil  and  cast  a  hesi- 
tating shadow  upon  the  Chinese  plains,  powdered 
with  gray  dust  and  burned  by  an  already  torrid 
sun. 

And  how  different  is  the  appearance  of  Pekin! 
The  first  time  we  approached  it,  not  by  the  super- 
human ramparts  of  the  Tartar  City,  but  by  those 
of  the  Chinese  City,  less  imposing  and  less  sombre. 

To  my  surprise  the  train  passes  right  through  a 


204    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

fresh  breach  in  the  wall,  enters  the  heart  of  the 
town,  and  lands  one  at  the  door  of  the  Temple  of 
Heaven.  It  seems  that  it  is  the  same  with  the 
line  from  Pao-Ting-Fou ;  the  Babylonian  enclos- 
ure has  been  pierced,  and  the  railroad  enters  Pekin 
and  comes  to  an  end  only  at  the  imperial  quarters. 
What  unheard-of  changes  the  Celestial  Emperor 
will  find  if  he  ever  returns!  —  locomotives  whist- 
ling and  running  right  through  this  old  capital  of 
stability  and  decay. 

On  the  platform  of  the  temporary  station  there 
was  an  almost  joyous  animation,  and  many  Euro- 
peans, too,  were  on  hand  to  meet  the  incoming 
travellers. 

Among  the  numerous  officers  who  were  there 
is  one  whom  I  recognize,  although  I  never  have 
seen  him,  and  toward  whom  I  advance  spontane- 
ously, —  Colonel  Marchand,  the  well-known  hero, 
who  arrived  in  Pekin  last  November,  after  I  had 
left.  We  take  a  carriage  together  bound  for  the 
French  quarter,  where  I  am  to  be  entertained. 

The  general  quarters  are  a  league  away,  still 
in  the  small  Palace  of  the  North,  which  was 
known  to  me  in  its  Chinese  splendor,  and  of 
whose  earlier  transformations  I  was  a  witness. 
The  colonel  himself  lives  near  by  in  the  Rotunda 
Palace,  and  we  discover  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation that  he  has  chosen  for  his  private  dwelling 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       205 

the  same  kiosk  which  I  used  for  my  work-room 
last  season. 

We  make  the  trip  by  way  of  the  grand  avenue 
used  by  processions  and  emperors,  through  the 
triple  gates  in  the  colossal  red  walls  under  the 
murderous  dungeon;  over  the  marble  bridges  be- 
tween great  grinning  marble  lions,  and  between 
ivory-colored  obelisks  surmounted  by  animals  out 
of  dreamland. 

And  when,  after  the  jolting,  the  noise,  and  the 
crowds,  our  carriage  glides  at  last  over  the  large 
paving-stones  of  the  Yellow  City,  all  this  mag- 
nificence seems  to  me,  on  second  sight,  more 
than  ever  condemned,  —  a  thing  which  has  had 
its  day.  Imperial  Pekin,  in  its  everlasting  dust, 
is  now  warmed  by  the  rays  of  the  April  sun, 
yet  it  does  not  waken,  does  not  return  to  life 
after  its  long,  cold  winter.  Not  a  drop  of  rain 
has  fallen  yet,  the  ground  is  dust,  the  parks  are 
dust. 

The  old  cedars,  black  and  powdery,  seem  like 
the  mummies  of  trees,  whilst  the  green  of  the 
monotonous  willows  is  just  beginning  to  appear  in 
the  terrible  ashen-white  sunshine. 

The  highest  roofs  rise  toward  a  clear  sky  which 
is  a  mixture  of  heat  and  light,  —  pyramids  of 
gold-colored  faience  whose  age  and  dilapidation 
are  more  evident  than  ever  amid  the  green  and 


206     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

the  birds' -nests.  The  Chinese  storks  have  come 
back  with  the  spring,  and  are  perched  in  rows 
along  the  highest  parts  of  the  great  roofs,  on  the 
precious  tiles,  among  the  horns  and  claws  and 
enamelled  monsters;  they  are  small,  motionless 
white  creatures,  —  half  lost  in  the  dazzling  white- 
ness of  the  sky,  —  who  seem  to  be  meditating  on 
the  destruction  of  the  city  as  they  contemplate  the 
dismal  dwellings  at  their  feet.  Really  I  find  that 
Pekin  has  aged  since  autumn,  aged  a  century  or 
two;  the  April  sunshine  emphasizes  all  this  and 
classes  it  definitely  among  the  hopeless  ruins.  One 
feels  that  its  end  has  come,  and  that  there  is  no 
possible  resurrection  for  it. 

SATURDAY,  April  20. 

The  funeral  of  General  Schwarzhof,  one  of  the 
greatest  enemies  of  France,  took  place  at  nine 
o'clock  this  morning  under  a  torrid  sun ;  he  came 
to  a  most  unexpected  end  here  in  this  Chinese 
palace  just  as  he  seemed  about  to  become  quarter- 
master-general of  the  German  army. 

The  entire  palace  was  not  burned,  only  that 
superb  part  where  he  and  the  marshal  lived,  — 
the  apartments  with  the  incomparable  ebony  wood- 
work and  the  throne  room  filled  with  chefs-d'oeuvre 
of  ancient  art. 

The  casket  has  been  placed  in  one  of  the  great 


PEKIN    IN   SPRINGTIME       207 

rooms  left  untouched  by  the  fire.  In  front  of  the 
doorway  the  white-haired  marshal  stands  in  the 
dangerous  sunshine.  Somewhat  overcome,  but 
preserving  the  exquisite  grace  of  a  gentleman  and 
a  soldier,  he  receives  the  officers  who  are  presented 
to  him,  —  officers  from  all  countries  in  every  kind 
of  dress,  who  arrive  on  horseback,  on  foot,  and  in 
carriages,  in  cocked  hats  and  in  helmets  decorated 
with  wings  or  with  feathers.  Timid  Chinese  dig- 
nitaries who  seem  to  belong  to  another  world 
and  another  age  of  human  history  come  also ;  and 
gentlemen  high  in  the  diplomatic  service  are  not 
lacking,  brought  here,  by  some  anachronism,  in 
old  Asiatic  palanquins. 

The  Chinese  character  of  the  room  is  entirely 
concealed  by  branches  of  cypress  and  cedar,  gath- 
ered from  the  imperial  park  by  the  German  sol- 
diers and  by  our  own;  they  cover  the  walls  and 
ceiling  and  are  strewn  over  the  floor,  exhaling  a 
balsamic  odor  of  the  forest  around  the  casket, 
which  is  half  hidden  by  white  lilacs  from  the 
Empress's  garden. 

After  the  address  by  a  Lutheran  pastor,  there 
is  a  chorus  from  Handel,  sung  from  behind  the 
branches  by  some  young  German  soldiers  with 
voices  so  pure  and  fresh  that  they  are  as  restful  as 
music  from  heaven.  Tame  pigeons,  whose  habits 
have  been  interfered  with  by  the  invasion  of  bar- 


208     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

barians,  fly  tranquilly  above  our  plumed  and  gilded 
heads. 

At  the  sound  of  the  military  brasses  the  pro- 
cession begins  to  move,  to  make  the  tour  of  the 
Lake  of  the  Lotus.  All  along  the  road  a  hedge, 
such  as  was  never  seen  before,  is  formed  by  the 
soldiers  of  all  nations ;  Bavarians  are  followed  by 
Cossacks,  Italians  by  Japanese,  etc.  Among  so 
many  rather  sombre  uniforms  the  red  waistcoats 
of  the  small  English  detachment  stand  out  sharply, 
and  their  reflections  in  the  lake  are  like  cruel  and 
bloody  trails.  It  is  a  very  small  detachment,  al- 
most ridiculously  so  beside  those  that  other  coun- 
tries have  sent;  England  is  represented  in  China 
chiefly  by  Indian  hordes,  —  every  one  knows,  alas, 
with  what  a  task  her  troops  are  elsewhere  occu- 
pied at  the  present  moment. 

The  images  of  the  lines  of  soldiers  are  reflected 
inversely  in  the  water  as  well  as  the  great  desolate 
palaces,  the  marble  quays,  and  the  faience  kiosks, 
built  here  and  there  among  the  trees;  in  certain 
places  the  lotus,  which  is  beginning  to  come  up 
from  the  slimy  mud,  shows  above  the  surface  its 
first  leaves,  of  a  green  tinged  with  pink. 

A  stop  is  made  at  a  dark  pagoda,  where  the 
coffin  is  temporarily  left.  This  pagoda  is  so  sur- 
rounded with  foliage  that  it  seems  at  first  as  though 
one  were  simply  entering  a  garden  of  cedars,  wil- 


PEKIN    IN   SPRINGTIME       209 

lows,  and  white  lilacs;  but  soon  the  eye  distin- 
guishes behind  and  above  this  verdure  other 
rarer  and  more  magnificent  foliage,  carved  by  the 
Chinese  for  their  gods  in  the  form  of  clusters  of 
maple  or  of  bamboo,  which  form  under  the  ceiling 
a  high  arbor  of  gold. 

And  here  this  curious  funeral  comes  to  an  end. 
The  groups  divide,  sorting  themselves  according 
to  nations,  and  soon  disperse  among  the  hot 
wooded  walks  in  the  direction  of  their  various 
palaces. 

The  setting  of  the  Yellow  City  seems  vaster, 
more  extensive  than  ever  in  the  April  light.  One 
is  bewildered  by  so  much  artificiality.  How  mar- 
vellous the  genius  of  these  people  has  been!  To 
have  created  bodily,  in  the  midst  of  an  arid  plain, 
a  lifeless  desert,  a  city  twenty  leagues  in  cir- 
cumference, with  aqueducts,  woods,  rivers,  moun- 
tains, and  lakes !  To  have  created  forest  distances 
and  watery  horizons,  to  give  their  sovereigns  illu- 
sions of  freshness !  And  to  have  enclosed  all  this, 
—  which  in  itself  is  so  large  that  one  cannot  see 
its  boundaries,  —  to  have  separated  it  from  the  rest 
of  the  world,  to  have  sequestered  it,  if  one  may 
use  the  word,  behind  such  formidable  walls! 

What  their  most  audacious  architects  have  not 
been  able  to  create,  nor  their  proudest  emperors, 

14 


210    THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

is  a  real  springtime  in  this  parched  land, — a  spring 
like  ours,  with  its  warm  rains  and  its  tremendously 
rapid  growth  of  grass,  ferns,  and  flowers.  Here 
there  is  no  turf,  no  moss,  no  odorous  hay;  the 
springtime  resurrection  is  indicated  here  by  the 
thin  foliage  on  the  willows,  by  tufts  of  grass  here 
and  there,  or  by  the  blossoming  of  a  sort  of  purple 
gillyflower  that  springs  up  out  of  the  dusty  soil. 
It  rains  only  in  June,  and  then  there  is  a  deluge 
flooding  all  things. 

Poor  Yellow  City,  where  we  walk  this  morning, 
meeting  so  many  people,  so  many  armed  detach- 
ments, so  many  uniforms ;  poor  Yellow  City,  closed 
to  the  world  for  so  many  centuries,  an  inviolable 
refuge  for  the  rites  and  mysteries  of  the  past ;  city 
of  splendor,  oppression,  and  silence!  When  I  saw 
it  in  the  autumn  it  had  an  air  of  desertion  which 
suited  it ;  but  now  I  find  it  overrun  by  the  soldiers 
of  all  Europe.  In  all  the  palaces  and  golden 
pagodas  "  barbarian  "  troopers  drag  their  swords 
or  groom  their  horses  under  the  very  noses  of  the 
great  dreamy  Buddhas. 

I  saw  to-day,  at  a  Chinese  merchant's,  a  collec- 
tion of  the  ingenious  terra-cotta  statuettes,  which 
are  a  specialty  of  Tien-Tsin.  Up  to  the  present 
year,  only  inhabitants  of  the  Celestial  Empire  have 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       211 

been  represented,  —  people  of  all  social  conditions 
and  in  every  circumstance  of  life;  but  these,  in- 
spired by  the  invasion,  represent  various  Occi- 
dental warriors,  whose  types  and  -costumes  are 
reproduced  with  astonishing  accuracy.  The  mod- 
ellers have  given  to  the  soldiers  of  certain  Euro- 
pean countries,  which  I  prefer  not  to  designate, 
an  expression  of  fierce  rage,  and  have  placed  in 
their  hands  light  swords  or  bludgeons,  or  whips 
raised  as  if  to  strike  a  blow. 

Our  own  men  wear  the  red  cap  of  the  country, 
and  are  exceedingly  French  as  to  faces,  with  mous- 
taches made  of  yellow  or  brown  silk;  each  one 
carries  tenderly  in  his  arms  a  little  Chinese  baby. 
They  are  posed  in  different  ways,  but  all  are  in- 
spired by  the  same  idea ;  the  little  Chinese  is  some- 
times holding  the  soldier  by  the  neck  and  embracing 
him ;  sometimes  the  soldier  is  tossing  the  laughing 
child,  or,  again,  he  is  carefully  wrapping  it  in  his 
winter  cloak.  Thus  it  is,  in  the  eyes  of  these  care- 
ful observers,  that  while  others  are  rough  and 
always  ready  to  strike  a  blow,  our  soldier  is  the 
one  who  after  the  battle  becomes  the  big  brother 
of  the  enemy's  little  children ;  after  several  months 
of  practically  living  together,  the  Chinese  have 
chosen  this,  and  this  alone,  to  characterize  the 
French. 

Examples  of  these  various  statuettes  ought  to  be 


212     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

scattered  broadcast  throughout  Europe:  the  com- 
parison would  be  for  us  a  glorious  trophy  to  bring 
back  from  the  war,  and  would  close  the  mouths 
of  numerous  imbeciles  in  our  own  country.1 

In  the  afternoon  Marshal  von  Waldersee  came 
to  our  headquarters.  He  was  kind  enough  to  say, 
what  was  in  fact  the  truth,  that  the  fire  was  extin- 
guished almost  entirely  by  our  soldiers,  led  by 
my  friend  Colonel  Marchand. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  on  the  evening  of  the  fire, 
the  colonel  was  dreaming  on  the  high  terrace  of 
the  Rotunda  Palace,  in  a  favorable  spot  from 
which  to  see  the  great  red  jet  shoot  superbly  up 
from  the  mass  of  sculptured  ebony  and  fine  lacquer, 
as  well  as  its  reflection  in  the  water.  He  was  the 
first  to  reach  the  spot  with  a  few  of  our  men,  and 
he  was  able  to  keep  ten  fire-engines  going  until 
morning,  while  our  marines,  under  his  orders, 
chopped  down  some  of  the  blazing  parts.  It  was 
owing  to  him,  also,  that  they  were  able  to  recover 
General  Schwarzhof's  body.  He  constantly  di- 
rected a  stream  of  water  toward  the  spot  where 
he  knew  he  had  fallen,  in  default  of  which  incin- 
eration would  have  been  complete. 

1  A  few  days  later,  by  order  of  the  superior  officers,  those  ac- 
cusing statues  were  withdrawn  from  the  market  and  the  models 
destroyed.  Only  the  statuettes  of  the  French  remained  on  sale,  and 
they  have  become  very  rare. 


PEKIN    IN   SPRINGTIME       213 

This  evening  I  go  to  call  on  Monsignor  Favier, 
who  has  just  returned  from  his  trip  to  Europe, 
full  of  confidence  in  his  plans. 

How  changed  is  all  connected  with  the  Catholic 
concession  since  the  autumn!  Instead  of  silence 
and  destruction  all  is  life  and  activity.  Eight  hun- 
dred workmen  —  almost  all  Boxers,  the  bishop 
says  with  a  defiant  smile  —  are  at  work  repairing 
the  cathedral,  which  is  encased  from  top  to  bottom 
in  bamboo  scaffoldings.  The  avenues  about  it  have 
been  widened  and  planted  with  rows  of  young 
acacias,  and  countless  improvements  have  been 
undertaken,  as  though  an  era  of  peace  had  begun 
and  persecutions  were  over  forever. 

While  I  am  conversing  with  the  bishop  in  the 
white  parlor,  the  marshal  arrives.  He  naturally 
refers  again  to  the  burning  of  his  palace,  and  with 
delicate  courtesy  informs  us  that  of  all  the  sou- 
venirs which  he  lost  in  the  disaster  the  one  he  most 
regrets  is  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 


II 

SUNDAY,  April  21. 

MY  easy  mission  over,  there  is  nothing  for  me 
to  do  but  to  return  to  the  Redoutable. 

But  the  general  is  kind  enough  to  invite  me  to 
remain  with  him  for  a  few  days.     He  proposes 


2i4    THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

that  we  pay  a  visit  to  the  tombs  of  the  emperors 
of  the  present  dynasty,  which  are  in  a  sacred  wood 
about  fifty  miles  southwest  of  Pekin,  —  tombs 
which  never  had  been  seen  before  this  war,  and 
which  probably  never  will  be  seen  after  it  is  over. 
In  order  to  accomplish  this  it  is  necessary  to  write 
in  advance  to  warn  the  mandarins,  and  especially 
the  commandants  of  the  French  posts  stationed 
along  the  route,  and  there  is  quite  an  expedition 
to  organize.  So  I  asked  the  admiral  for  ten  days, 
which  he  kindly  granted  me  by  telegraph,  and  am 
still  here,  a  guest  of  the  palace  for  much  longer 
than  I  expected. 

This  Sunday  morning  I  go  over  to  Monsignor's 
cathedral  to  take  part  in  the  grand  mass  for  the 
Chinese. 

I  enter  at  the  left  of  the  nave,  which  is  the  side 
for  men,  while  the  right  side  is  reserved  for  women. 

When  I  arrive  the  church  is  already  packed  with 
Chinese,  both  men  and  women,  kneeling  close  to- 
gether, and  humming  in  an  undertone  a  sort  of 
uninterrupted  chant  that  resembles  the  buzzing  of 
an  immense  hive.  There  is  a  strong  smell  of  musk, 
for  both  cotton  and  silk  robes  are  saturated  with  it ; 
and  besides  that  there  is  the  intolerable  odor  that 
belongs  to  the  yellow  race,  and  which  is  something 
indescribable.  In  front  of  me,  to  the  farthest  ends 
of  the  church,  men  with  bowed  heads  are  kneeling. 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       215 

I  see  backs  by  the  hundreds  with  long  queues  hang- 
ing over  them.  On  the  women's  side  are  bright 
silks,  —  a  perfect  medley  of  colors ;  chignons, 
smooth  and  black  as  varnished  ebony,  with  flowers 
and  gold  pins.  Everybody  sings  with  mouths 
almost  closed,  as  if  in  a  dream.  Their  devotion  is 
obvious,  and  it  is  touching,  in  spite  of  the  extreme 
drollery  of  the  people;  they  really  pray,  and  seem 
to  do  so  with  fervor  and  humility. 

Now  comes  the  spectacle  for  which  I  confess 
I  came,  —  the  coming  out  from  mass,  —  a  great 
opportunity  to  see  some  of  the  beautiful  ladies  of 
Pekin,  for  they  do  not  show  themselves  in  the 
street,  where  only  women  of  the  lower  classes  walk 
about. 

There  were  several  hundred  elegant  women  who 
slowly  came  out,  one  after  another,  their  feet  too 
small  and  their  shoes  too  high.  Oh,  the  line  of 
strange  little  painted  faces  and  the  finery  that 
emerged  from  that  narrow  doorway!  The  cut  of 
the  pantaloons,  the  cut  of  the  tunics,  the  combina- 
tion of  forms  and  colors,  must  be  as  old  as  China, 
and  how  far  it  seems  from  us !  They  are  like  dolls 
of  another  age,  another  world,  who  have  escaped 
from  old  parasols  or  decorated  jars,  to  take  on  real- 
ity and  life  this  beautiful  April  morning.  Among 
them  are  Chinese  ladies  with  deformed  toes  and 


216     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

incredibly  small,  pointed  shoes;  their  stiff,  heavy 
masses  of  hair  are  pointed  too,  and  arranged  at 
the  nape  of  the  neck  like  birds'  tails.  There  are 
Tartar  ladies,  belonging  to  the  special  aristocracy 
known  as  "  the  eight  banners ;  "  their  feet  are  nat- 
ural, but  their  embroidered  slippers  have  stilt-like 
heels ;  their  hair  is  long,  and  is  wound  like  a  skein 
of  black  silk  on  a  piece  of  board  placed  crosswise 
back  of  their  heads,  so  that  it  forms  two  horizontal 
cones  with  an  artificial  flower  at  each  end. 

They  paint  themselves  like  the  wax  figures  at 
the  hairdressers',  —  white,  with  a  bright  pink  spot 
in  the  middle  of  each  cheek;  one  feels  that  it  is 
done  according  to  custom  and  etiquette,  without 
the  least  attempt  at  creating  an  illusion. 

They  chatter  and  laugh  discreetly ;  they  lead  by 
the  hand  the  most  adorable  babies  (who  were  as 
good  as  little  porcelain  kittens  during  mass), 
decked  out,  and  their  hair  dressed  in  the  most  com- 
ical fashion.  Many  of  the  women  are  pretty,  very 
pretty;  almost  all  seem  decent,  reserved,  and 
comme  il  faut. 

The  exit  from  the  church  was  accomplished 
quietly,  with  every  appearance  of  peace  and  happi- 
ness, in  complete  confidence  in  these  surroundings 
so  recently  the  scene  of  massacre  and  other  horrors. 
The  gates  of  the  enclosure  are  wide  open,  and  a 
new  avenue,  bordered  by  young  trees,  has  been 


PEKIN    IN   SPRINGTIME       217 

laid  out  over  what  was  not  long  since  a  charnel- 
house. 

A  great  number  of  little  Chinese  carts,  uphol- 
stered in  beautiful  silk  or  in  blue  cotton,  are 
waiting,  their  heavy  wheels  decorated  with  cop- 
per; all  the  dolls  get  in  with  much  ceremony,  and 
depart  as  though  they  were  leaving  some  festive 
performance. 

Once  more  the  Christians  in  China  have  won 
a  victory,  and  they  triumph  generously  —  until  the 
next  massacre. 

At  two  o'clock  to-day,  as  is  the  Sunday  custom, 
the  marine  band  plays  in  the  court  at  headquarters, 
—  in  the  court  of  the  Palace  of  the  North,  which 
I  had  known  filled  with  strange  and  magnificent 
debris  in  a  cold  autumn  wind,  but  which  at  present 
is  all  cleared  up  as  neat  as  a  pin,  with  the  April 
green  beginning  to  show  on  the  branches  of  the 
little  trees. 

This  semblance  of  a  French  Sunday  is  rather 
sad.  The  feeling  of  exile  which  one  never  loses 
here  is  made  all  the  keener  by  the  poor  music,  to 
which  there  are  but  few  listeners ;  no  dressy  women 
or  happy  babies,  just  two  or  three  groups  of  idle 
soldiers  and  a  few  of  the  sick  or  wounded  from 
the  hospital,  their  young  faces  pale  and  wan,  one 
dragging  a  limb,  another  leaning  on  a  crutch. 


218     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

And  yet  there  are  moments  when  it  does  sug- 
gest home;  the  going  and  coming  of  the  marines 
and  of  the  good  Sisters  reminds  one  of  some  little 
corner  of  France ;  beyond  the  glass  galleries  which 
surround  this  court  rises  the  slender  Gothic  tower 
of  the  neighboring  church,  with  a  large  tricolored 
flag  floating  from  the  top,  high  up  in  the  blue  sky, 
dominating  everything,  and  protecting  the  little 
country  we  have  improvised  here  in  the  haunts  of 
the  Chinese  emperors. 

What  a  change  has  taken  place  in  this  Palace  of 
the  North  since  my  stay  here  last  autumn. 

With  the  exception  of  the  part  reserved  for  the 
general  and  his  officers,  all  the  galleries  and  all  the 
dependencies  have  become  hospital  wards  for  our 
soldiers.  They  are  admirably  adapted  to  this  pur- 
pose, for  they  are  separated  from  one  another  by 
courts,  and  stand  on  high  foundations  of  granite. 
There  are  two  hundred  beds  for  the  poor  sick  sol- 
diers, who  are  most  comfortably  installed  in  them, 
with  light  and  air  at  pleasure,  thanks  to  the  way 
this  fantastic  palace  is  built.  The  good  Sisters 
with  their  white  pointed  caps  move  about  with 
short,  quick  steps,  distributing  medicines,  clean 
linen,  and  smiles. 

A  small  parlor  is  set  apart  for  the  head-nurse, 
—  an  elderly  woman,  with  a  fine,  wrinkled  face, 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       219 

who  has  just  received  the  cross,  in  the  presence 
of  all  the  troops,  for  her  admirable  services  during 
the  siege.  Her  little  whitewashed  parlor  is  alto- 
gether typical  and  charming,  with  its  six  Chinese 
chairs,  its  Chinese  table,  its  two  Chinese  water- 
colors  of  flowers  and  fruits  that  hang  on  the  wall, 
—  all  chosen  from  amongst  the  most  modest  of  the 
Sardanapalian  reserves  of  the  Empress;  added  to 
these  is  a  large  plaster  image  of  the  Virgin,  en- 
throned in  the  place  of  honor,  between  two  jars 
filled  with  white  lilacs. 

White  lilacs !  The  most  magnificent  bunches  of 
them  grow  in  all  the  walled  gardens  of  this  palace ; 
they  are  the  sole  joyful  signs  of  April,  of  real 
spring  under  this  burning  sun;  and  they  are  a 
boon  to  the  Sisters,  who  make  regular  thickets  of 
them  in  honor  of  the  Virgin  and  saints,  on  their 
simple  altars. 

I  had  known  all  these  mandarins'  and  gardeners' 
houses,  which  extend  on  among  the  trees,  in  com- 
plete disarray,  filled  with  strange  spoils,  filth,  and 
pestilential  smells;  now  they  are  clean  and  white- 
washed, with  nothing  disagreeable  about  them. 
The  nuns  have  established  here  a  wash-house,  there 
a  kitchen  where  good  broth  is  made  for  the  in- 
valids, or  a  linen  room,  where  piles  of  clean- 
smelling  sheets  and  shirts  for  the  sick  are  ranged 
on  shelves  covered  with  immaculate  papers. 


220    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

Like  the  simplest  of  our  sailors  or  soldiers,  I 
am  very  much  inclined  to  be  charmed  and  com- 
forted by  the  mere  sight  of  a  good  Sister's  cap.  It 
is  no  doubt  an  indication  of  a  regrettable  lack  in 
my  imagination,  but  I  have  much  less  of  a  thrill 
when  I  look  upon  the  head-dress  of  a  lay  nurse. 

Outside  of  our  quarters,  in  these  unheard-of 
times  for  Pekin,  Sunday  is  marked  by  the  great 
numbers  of  soldiers  of  all  countries  who  are  cir- 
culating about  its  streets. 

The  city  has  been  divided  into  districts,  each 
placed  under  the  care  of  one  of  the  invading 
peoples,  and  the  different  zones  mingle  very  little 
with  one  another ;  the  officers  occasionally,  the  sol- 
diers almost  never.  As  an  exception,  the  Germans 
come  to  us  sometimes,  and  we  go  to  them,  for  one 
of  the  undeniable  results  of  this  war  has  been  to 
establish  a  sympathy  between  the  men  of  the  two 
armies;  but  the  international  relations  of  our 
troops  are  limited  to  this  one  exception. 

The  part  of  Pekin  that  fell  to  France  —  several 
kilometres  in  circumference  —  is  the  one  where 
the  Boxers  destroyed  most  during  the  siege,  the 
one  that  is  most  ruined  and  solitary,  but  also  the 
one  to  which  life  and  confidence  soonest  returned. 
Our  soldiers  take  kindly  to  the  Chinese,  both  men 
and  women,  and  even  to  the  babies.  They  have 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       221 

made  friends  everywhere,  as  may  be  seen  by  the 
way  the  Chinese  approach  them  instead  of  running 
away. 

In  the  French  part  of  Pekin  every  little  house 
flies  the  tricolor  as  a  safeguard.  Many  of  the 
people  have  even  pasted  on  their  doors  placards 
of  white  paper,  obtained  through  the  kind  offices 
of  some  of  our  men,  on  which  may  be  read 
in  big,  childish  handwriting :  "  We  are  Chinese 
protected  by  French  "  or  "  Here  we  are  all  Chinese 
Christians." 

And  every  little  baby,  naked  or  clothed,  with  his 
ribbon  and  his  queue,  has  learned,  smilingly,  to 
make  the  military  salute  as  we  pass. 

At  sunset  the  soldiers  turn  in,  the  barracks  are 
closed.  Silence  and  darkness  everywhere. 

The  night  is  particularly  dark.  About  two 
o'clock  I  leave  my  quarters  with  one  of  my  com- 
rades of  the  land  force.  Lantern  in  hand,  we  set 
forth  in  the  dark  labyrinth;  challenged  at  first 
here  and  there  by  sentinels,  then,  meeting  no  one 
but  frightened  dogs,  we  cross  ruins,  cesspools,  and 
wretched  streets  that  breathe  death. 

A  very  dubious-looking  house  is  our  goal.  The 
watchmen  at  the  gate,  who  were  on  the  lookout,  an- 
nounce us  by  a  long,  sinister  cry,  and  we  plunge 
into  a  series  of  winding  passageways  and  dark 


222     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

recesses.  Then  come  several  small  rooms  with 
low  ceilings,  which  are  stuffy,  and  lighted  only  by 
dim,  smoky  lamps;  their  furnishings  consist  of  a 
divan  and  an  arm-chair;  the  air,  which  is  scarcely 
breathable,  is  saturated  with  opium  and  musk. 
The  patron  and  the  patroness  have  both  the  em- 
bonpoint and  the  patriarchal  good  nature  which 
go  along  with  such  a  house. 

I  beg  that  my  reader  will  not  misunderstand 
me;  this  is  a  house  of  song  (one  of  the  oldest  of 
Chinese  institutions,  now  tending  to  disappear), 
and  one  comes  here  simply  to  listen  to  music, 
surrounded  by  clouds  of  overpowering  smoke. 

Hesitatingly  we  take  our  places  in  one  of  the 
small  rooms,  on  a  red  couch  covered  with  red 
cushions  embroidered  with  natural  representations 
of  wild  animals.  Its  cleanliness  is  dubious  and 
the  excessive  odors  disturb  us.  On  the  papered 
walls  hang  water-colors  representing  beatified 
sages  among  the  clouds.  In  one  corner  an  old 
German  clock,  which  must  have  been  in  Pekin  at 
least  a  hundred  years,  ticks  a  shrill  tick-tock.  It 
seems  as  though  from  the  moment  of  our  arrival 
our  minds  were  affected  by  the  heavy  opium 
dreams  that  have  been  evolved  on  this  divan 
under  the  restraint  of  the  oppressive  dark  ceil- 
ings; and  yet  this  is  an  elegant  resort  for  the 
Chinese,  a  place  apart,  to  which,  before  the 


PEKIN   IN   SPRINGTIME       223 

war,  no  amount  of  money  would  admit  any 
European. 

Pushing  aside  the  long,  poisonous  pipes  that 
are  offered  us,  we  light  some  Turkish  cigarettes, 
and  the  music  begins. 

The  first  to  appear  is  a  guitarist,  and  as  mar- 
vellous a  one  as  could  be  found  at  Granada  or 
Seville.  He  makes  his  strings  weep  songs  of  in- 
finite sadness. 

Afterwards,  for  our  amusement,  he  imitates  on 
his  guitar  the  sound  of  a  French  regiment  pass- 
ing, the  muffled  drums  and  the  trumpets  in  the 
distance  playing  the  "  March  of  the  Zouaves." 

Finally,  three  little  old  women  appear,  stout 
and  rather  pale,  who  are  to  give  us  some  plain- 
tive trios  with  minor  strains  that  correspond  with 
the  dreams  that  follow  opium  smoking.  But  be- 
fore beginning,  one  of  the  three,  who  is  the  star, 

—  a  curious,   very  much  dressed  little  creature, 
with  a  tiara  of  rice-paper  flowers,  like  a  goddess, 

—  advances  toward  me  on  the  toes  of  her  tor- 
tured feet,  extends  her  hand  to  me  in  European 
fashion,  and  says  in  French,  with  a  Creole  accent, 
and  not  without  a  certain  distinction  of  manner, 
"  Good  evening,  colonel." 

It  was  the  last  thing  I  expected !  Certainly  the 
occupation  of  Pekin  by  French  troops  has  been 
prolific  in  unexpected  results. 


224    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

MONDAY,  April  22. 

My  journey  to  the  Tombs  of  the  Emperors  takes 
some  time  to  organize.  The  replies  that  come  to 
headquarters  state  that  the  country  has  been  less 
safe  for  the  past  few  days,  that  bands  of  Boxers 
have  appeared  in  the  province,  and  they  are  wait- 
ing further  instructions  before  consenting  to  my 
departure. 

In  the  meantime  I  make  another  visit  in  the 
hot  spring  sunshine  to  the  horrors  of  the  Chris- 
tian cemeteries  violated  by  the  Chinese. 

The  confusion  there  is  unchanged;  there  is  the 
same  chaos  of  melancholy  marbles,  of  mutilated 
emblems,  of  steles  fallen  and  broken.  The  human 
remains  which  the  Boxers  did  not  have  time  to 
destroy  before  they  were  routed  lie  in  the  same 
places;  no  pious  hand  has  ventured  to  bury  them 
again,  for,  according  to  Chinese  ideas,  it  would 
be  accepting  the  proffered  injury  to  put  them 
back  in  the  ground;  they  must  lie  there,  crying 
for  vengeance,  until  the  day  of  complete  repara- 
tion. There  is  no  change  in  this  place  of  abomi- 
nation, except  that  it  is  no  longer  frozen;  the  sun 
shines,  and  here  and  there  yellow  dandelions  or 
violet  gillyflowers  are  blossoming  in  the  sandy  soil. 

As  to  the  great  yawning  wells  which  had  been 
filled  with  the  bodies  of  the  tortured,  time  has 


PEKIN    IN   SPRINGTIME       225 

begun  to  do  its  work;  the  wind  has  blown  the 
dust  and  dirt  over  them,  and  their  contents  have 
dried  to  such  an  extent  that  they  now  form  a 
compact  gray  mass,  although  an  occasional  foot 
or  hand  or  skull  still  protrudes  above  the  rest. 

In  one  of  these  wells,  on  the  human  crust  that 
rises  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  ground,  lies  the  body 
of  a  poor  Chinese  baby,  dressed  in  a  torn  little 
shirt  and  swathed  in  red  cotton,  —  it  is  a  recent 
corpse,  hardly  stiff  as  yet.  No  doubt  it  is  a  little 
girl,  for  the  Chinese  have  the  most  atrocious  scorn 
for  girls;  the  Sisters  pick  them  up  like  this  along 
the  roads  every  day,  thrown  while  still  alive  upon 
some  rubbish  heap.  So  it  was,  no  doubt,  with  this 
one.  She  may  have  been  ill,  or  ill-favored,  or 
simply  one  too  many  in  a  family.  She  lies  there 
face  downward,  with  extended  arms  and  little 
doll-like  hands.  Her  face,  from  which  the  blood 
has  been  running,  is  lying  on  the  most  frightful 
rubbish ;  a  few  of  the  feathers  of  a  young  sparrow 
lie  on  the  back  of  her  neck,  over  which  the  flies 
are  meandering. 

Poor  little  creature  in  her  red  woollen  rags  with 
her  little  hands  outstretched !  Poor  little  face  hid- 
den so  that  no  one  shall  see  it  more  before  its  final 
decomposition ! 


VII 

THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  EMPERORS 


PEKIN,  Friday,  April  26,  1901. 

AT  last  the  day  has  come  for  my  departure 
for  the  sacred  wood  which  encloses  the 
imperial  tombs. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  leave  the 
Palace  of  the  North,  taking  with  me  my  last  au- 
tumn's servants,  Osman  and  Renaud,  as  well  as 
four  African  riflemen  and  a  Chinese  interpreter. 
We  start  on  horseback  on  animals  chosen  for  the 
journey,  which  will  be  transported  by  rail  when- 
ever we  are. 

First,  two  or  three  kilometres  across  Pekin  in 
the  beautiful  morning  light,  along  great  thorough- 
fares magnificent  in  their  desolation,  the  route  of 
pageants  and  of  emperors;  through  the  triple  red 
gates,  between  lions  of  marble  and  obelisks  of 
marble,  yellow  as  old  ivory. 

Now  the  railway  station  —  it  is  in  the  centre 
of  the  city  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  of  the  second 
enclosure,  for  the  Western  barbarians  dared  to 


commit  the  sacrilege  of  piercing  the  ramparts  in 
order  to  introduce  their  submersive  system. 

Men  and  horses  go  aboard.  Then  the  train 
threads  its  way  across  the  devastated  Chinese 
City,  and  for  three  or  four  kilometres  skirts  the 
colossal  gray  wall  of  the  Tartar  City,  which  con- 
tinues to  unfold  itself,  always  the  same,  with 
the  same  bastions,  the  same  battlements,  without 
a  gate,  without  anything,  to  relieve  its  monotony 
and  its  immensity. 

A  breach  in  the  outer  wall  casts  us  forth  at  last 
into  the  melancholy  country. 

And  for  three  hours  and  a  half  it  is  a  journey 
through  the  dust  of  the  plain,  past  demolished 
stations,  rubbish,  ruins.  According  to  the  great 
plans  of  the  allied  nations,  this  line,  which  actu- 
ally goes  to  Pao-Ting-Fu,  is  to  be  extended  sev- 
.eral  hundred  leagues,  sa  as  to  unite  Pekin  and 
Hang-Chow,  two  enormous  cities.  It  would  thus 
become  one  of  the  great  arteries  of  new  China, 
scattering  along  its  way  the  benefits  of  Occidental 
civilization. 

At  noon  we  alight  at  Tchou-Tchou,  a  great 
walled  city,  whose  high  battlemented  ramparts 
and  two  twelve-storied  towers  are  perceived  as 
through  a  cloud  of  ashes.  A  man  is  scarcely  rec- 
ognizable at  twenty  paces,  as  in  times  of  fog  in 
the  north,  so  filled  with  dust  is  the  air;  and  the 


228     THE    LAST    DAYS    OF   PEKIN 

sun,  though  dimmed  and  yellow,  reflects  a  heat 
that  is  overpowering. 

The  commandant  and  the  officers  of  the  French 
port,  which  has  occupied  Tchou-Tchou  since  the 
autumn,  were  kind  enough  to  meet  me  and  to  take 
me  for  breakfast  to  their  table  in  the  comparative 
freshness  of  the  big  dark  pagodas  where  they  with 
their  men  were  installed.  The  road  to  the  tombs,1 
they  tell  me,  which  latterly  has  seemed  quite  safe, 
has  been  less  so  for  a  few  days,  a  band  of  two 
hundred  marauding  Boxers  having  yesterday  at- 
tacked one  of  the  large  villages  through  which  I 
must  pass,  where  they  fought  all  the  morning,  — 
until  the  appearance  of  a  French  detachment  who 
came  to  the  aid  of  the  villagers  sent  the  Boxers 
flying  like  a  flock  of  sparrows. 

"  Two  hundred  Boxers,"  continued  the  com- 
mandant of  the  post,  making  a  mental  calcula- 
tion ;  "let  me  see,  two  hundred  Boxers :  you 
will  have  to  have  at  least  ten  men.  You  already 
have  six  horsemen;  I  will,  if  you  wish,  add  four 
more." 

I  felt  that  I  ought  to  make  some  suitable  ac- 
knowledgment, to  reply  that  it  was  too  much,  that 
he  overpowered  me.  Then  under  the  eyes  of  the 

1  The  reference  here  is  not  to  the  tombs  of  the  Mings,  which 
have  for  many  years  been  explored  by  all  Europeans  on  their  way 
to  Pekin,  but  to  the  tombs  of  the  emperors  of  the  reigning  dynasty, 
whose  very  approaches  have  always  been  forbidden. 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     229 

Buddhas,  who  were  watching  us  breakfast,  we 
both  began  to  laugh,  struck  all  at  once  by  the  air 
of  extravagant  bluster  in  what  we  were  saying. 
In  truth  it  had  the  force  of 

"  Paraissez,  Navarrois,  Maures  et  Castillans  ;  " 

and  yet,  ten  men  against  two  hundred  Boxers  are 
really  all  that  are  necessary.  They  are  tenacious 
and  terrible  only  behind  walls,  those  fellows;  but 
in  a  flat  country  —  it  is  highly  probable,  more- 
over, that  I  shall  not  see  the  queue  of  one.  I  ac- 
cept the  reinforcement,  —  four  brave  soldiers,  who 
will  be  delighted  to  accompany  me;  I  accept  so 
much  the  more  readily,  since  my  expedition  will 
thus  take  on  the  proportions  of  a  military  recon- 
naissance, and  this,  it  appears,  will  be  a  good 
thing  just  now. 

At  two  o'clock  we  remount  our  horses,  for  we 
are  to  sleep  in  an  old  walled  town  twenty-five  kilo- 
metres farther  on,  called  Lai-Chow-Chien  (Chi- 
nese cities  seem  to  claim  these  names;  we  know 
of  one  called  Cha-Ma-Miaou,  and  another,  a  very 
large,  ancient  capital,  Chien-Chien). 

We  make  a  plunge  and  disappear  at  once  in  a 
cloud  of  dust  which  the  wind  chases  over  the  plain, 
—  the  immense,  suffocating  plain.  There  is  no 
illusion  possible ;  it  is  the  "  yellow  wind  "  which 
has  arisen,  —  a  wind  which  generally  blows  in 


23o    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

periods  of  three  days,  adding  to  the  dust  of  China 
all  that  of  the  Mongolian  desert. 

No  roads  but  deep  tracks,  paths  several  feet 
below  the  surface,  which  could  only  have  been 
hollowed  there  in  the  course  of  centuries.  A 
frightful  country,  which  has,  since  the  beginning 
of  time,  endured  torrid  heat  and  almost  hyperbo- 
rean cold.  In  this  dry,  powdery  soil  how  can  the 
new  wheat  grow,  which  here  and  there  makes 
squares  of  really  fresh  green  in  the  midst  of  the 
infinite  grays?  There  are  also  from  time  to  time 
a  few  sparse  clumps  of  young  elms  and  willows, 
somewhat  different  from  ours,  but  nevertheless 
recognizable,  just  showing  their  first  tiny  leaves. 
Monotony  and  sadness;  one  would  call  it  a  poor 
landscape  of  the  extreme  north,  lighted  by  an 
African  sun,  —  a  sun  that  has  mistaken  the 
latitude. 

At  a  turn  of  the  crooked  road  a  band  of 
laborers  who  see  us  suddenly  spring  up,  are 
frightened,  and  throw  down  their  spades  to  run 
away.  But  one  of  them  stops  the  others,  crying, 
"  Fanko  pink"  (French  soldiers).  "They  are 
French,  do  not  be  afraid."  Then  they  bend  again 
over  the  burning  earth,  and  peaceably  continue 
their  work,  looking  at  us  as  we  pass  by  from  the 
corners  of  their  eyes.  Their  confidence  speaks 
volumes  on  the  somewhat  exceptional  kind  of 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     231 

"  barbarians  "  our  brave  soldiers  have  known  how 
to  be,  in  the  course  of  a  European  invasion. 

The  few  clumps  of  willows  scattered  over  the 
plains  almost  always  shelter  under  their  sparse 
foliage  the  villages  of  tillers  of  the  soil,  —  little 
houses  of  clay  and  of  gray  brick,  absurd  little 
pagodas,  which  are  crumbling  in  the  sunshine. 
Warned  by  watchmen,  men  and  children  come 
out  as  we  pass  to  look  at  us  in  silence  with  naive 
curiosity;  bare  to  the  waist,  very  yellow,  very 
thin,  and  very  muscular;  pantaloons  of  the  ever 
similar  dark  blue  cotton.  Out  of  politeness  each 
one  uncoils  and  allows  to  hang  down  his  back  his 
long  plaited  hair,  for  to  keep  it  on  the  crown  of 
the  head  would  be  a  disrespect  to  me.  No  women ; 
they  remain  concealed.  These  people  must  have 
much  the  same  impression  of  us  that  the  peas- 
ants of  Gaul  had  when  Attila,  chief  of  the  army, 
passed  with  his  escort,  except  that  they  are  less 
frightened.  Everything  about  us  is  astonish- 
ing, —  costumes,  arms,  and  faces.  Even  my 
horse,  which  is  an  Arabian  stallion,  must  seem 
to  them  a  huge,  unusual,  superb  animal  beside 
their  own  little  horses,  with  their  big  rough 
heads. 

The  frail  willows,  through  which  the  sunlight 
sifts  upon  the  houses  and  tiny  pagodas  of  these 
primitive  lives,  scatter  over  us  their  blossoms,  like 


232     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

tiny  feathers  or  little  tufts  of  cotton-wool,  which 
fall  in  a  shower,  and  mingle  with  the  never-ending 
dust. 

On  the  plain,  which  now  begins  again,  level  and 
always  the  same,  I  keep  two  or  three  hundred 
metres  in  advance  of  my  little  armed  troop,  to 
avoid  the  excessive  dust  raised  by  the  trot  of  the 
horses'  feet ;  a  gray  cloud  behind  me  when  I  turn 
around  shows  me  that  they  are  following.  The 
"  yellow  wind  "  continues  to  blow ;  we  are  pow- 
dered with  it  to  such  an  extent  that  our  horses, 
our  moustaches,  our  uniforms  have  become  of  the 
color  of  ashes. 

Toward  five  o'clock  the  old  walled  town  where 
we  are  to  pass  the  night  appears  before  us.  From 
afar  it  is  almost  imposing  in  the  midst  of  the 
plain,  with  its  high  crenellated  ramparts  so  sombre 
in  color.  Near  by,  no  doubt,  it  would  show  but 
ruin  and  decrepitude,  like  the  rest  of  China. 

A  horseman,  bringing  along  with  him  the  in- 
evitable cloud  of  dust,  comes  out  to  meet  me.  It 
is  the  officer  commanding  the  fifty  men  of  the 
marine  infantry  who  have  occupied  Lai-Chou- 
Chien  since  October.  He  informs  me  that  the 
general  has  had  the  kindly  thought  of  having  me 
announced  as  one  of  the  great  mandarins  of  Occi- 
dental letters,  so  the  mandarin  of  the  town  is  com- 
ing out  to  meet  me  with  an  escort,  and  he  has 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     233 

called  together  the  neighboring  villages  for  a  fete 
which  he  is  preparing  for  me. 

In  fact,  here  the  procession  comes,  from  out  the 
crumbling  old  gates,  advancing  through  the  wasted 
fields,  with  red  emblems  and  music. 

Now  it  stops  to  await  me,  ranged  in  two  lines 
on  each  side  of  the  road.  And  following  the  usual 
ceremonial,  some  one,  a  servant  of  the  mandarin, 
comes  forward,  fifty  feet  in  advance  of  the  others, 
with  a  large  red  paper,  which  is  the  visiting-card 
of  his  master.  He  himself,  the  timid  mandarin, 
awaits,  standing,  with  the  people  of  his  house, 
having  come  down  from  his  palanquin  out  of 
deference.  I  extend  my  hand  without  dismount- 
ing, as  I  have  been  told  to  do,  after  which,  in 
a  cloud  of  gray  dust,  we  make  our  way  toward 
the  great  walls,  followed  by  my  cavaliers,  and 
preceded  by  the  procession  of  honor  with  music 
and  emblems. 

At  the  head  are  two  big  red  parasols,  surrounded 
with  a  fall  of  silk  like  the  canopies  in  a  procession ; 
than  a  fantastic  black  butterfly,  as  large  as  an  owl 
with  extended  wings,  which  is  carried  at  the  end 
of  a  stick  by  a  child;  then  two  rows  of  banners; 
then  shields  of  red  lacquered  wood  inscribed  with 
letters  of  gold.  As  soon  as  we  begin  to  march 
gongs  commence  to  sound  lugubriously  at  regular 
intervals  as  for  a  military  salute,  whilst  heralds 


234     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

with  prolonged  cries  announce  my  arrival  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  village. 

Here  we  are  at  the  gate,  which  seems  like  the 
entrance  to  a  cavern;  on  each  side  are  hung  five 
or  six  little  wooden  cages,  each  one  containing  a 
kind  of  black  beast,  motionless  in  the  midst  of  a 
swarm  of  flies;  their  tails  may  be  seen  hanging 
outside  the  bars  like  dead  things.  What  can  it  be 
that  keeps  itself  rolled  up  like  a  ball,  and  has  such 
a  long  tail?  Monkeys?  Ah,  horrors,  they  are 
heads  that  have  been  severed  from  their  bodies! 
Each  one  of  these  pretty  cages  contains  a  human 
head,  beginning  to  grow  black  in  the  sunshine, 
with  long,  braided  hair  which  has  been  intentionally 
uncoiled. 

We  are  swallowed  up  by  the  big  gate,  and  are 
received  by  the  inevitable  grinning  old  granite 
monsters  which  at  right  and  at  left  raise  their 
great  heads  with  the  squinting  eyes.  Motionless, 
against  the  inner  wall  of  the  tunnel,  the  people 
press  to  see  me  pass,  huddled  together,  climbing 
one  upon  the  other, — yellow  nakedness,  blue  cotton 
rags,  ugly  faces.  The  dust  fills  and  obscures  this 
vaulted  passage  where  men  and  horses  press,  en- 
veloped in  the  same  gloom. 

We  have  entered  old  provincial  China,  belong- 
ing to  another  era  entirely  unknown  to  us. 


Copyright,  1901,  by  y.  C.  Heinment 

NON-COMMISSIONED  OFFICERS  AND  MEN  OF  FRENCH 
ARTILLERY  AND  MARINES 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     235 


II 

RUIN  and  dilapidation  within  the  walls,  as  I  ex- 
pected, not  from  any  fault  of  the  Boxers  or  of 
the  Allies,  for  the  war  did  not  come  near  here, 
but  as  a  result  of  d^cay,  of  the  falling  into  dust 
of  this  old  China,  our  elder  by  more  than  thirty 
centuries. 

The  gong  in  front  of  me  continues  to  sound 
lugubriously  at  fixed  intervals,  and  the  heralds  con- 
tinue to  announce  me  to  the  people  by  prolonged 
cries,  resounding  through  the  little  powdery  streets 
under  the  still  burning  evening  sun.  One  sees 
unused  land  and  cultivated  fields.  Here  and 
there  granite  monsters,  defaced,  shapeless,  half 
buried,  worn  by  years,  indicate  what  was  formerly 
the  entrance  to  a  palace. 

Before  a  door  which  surmounts  a  tricolored 
pavilion  the  procession  stops,  and  I  dismount.  For 
seven  or  eight  months  our  fifty  soldiers  of  the 
marine  infantry  have  been  quartered  here,  spend- 
ing a  whole  long  winter  at  Lai-Chou-Chien,  sep- 
arated from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  snow  and 
icy  steppes,  and  leading  a  Crusoe-like  existence 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  perplexing  surroundings. 

It  is  a  surprise  and  a  joy  to  come  among  them, 
to  see  again  their  honest  home  faces,  after  all  the 


236     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

yellow  ones  we  have  met  along  the  road,  darting 
sharp  enigmatical  glances  at  us.  This  French 
quarter  is  like  a  bit  of  life,  gaiety,  and  youth  in 
the  midst  of  mummified  old  China. 

It  is  plain  that  the  winter  has  been  good  for  our 
soldiers,  for  the  look  of  health  is  on  their  cheeks. 
They  have  organized  themselves  with  a  comical 
and  somewhat  marvellous  ingenuity,  creating  lav- 
atories, douche  rooms,  a  schoolroom  where  they 
teach  French  to  the  little  Chinese,  and  even  a 
theatre.  Living  in  intimate  comradeship  with  the 
people  of  the  town,  who  will  before  long  be  unwill- 
ing to  see  them  go,  they  cultivate  vegetable  gar- 
dens, raise  chickens  and  sheep,  and  bring  up  little 
ravens  by  hand  like  orphan  babies. 

It  is  arranged  that  I  should  sleep  at  the  house  of 
the  mandarin  after  having  supped  at  the  French 
post.  So  at  nine  o'clock  they  come  for  me  to 
conduct  me  to  the  "  Yamen  "  with  lanterns  of  state, 
decorated  in  a  very  Chinese  fashion  and  as  big  as 
barrels. 

The  Chinese  Yamen  is  always  of  tremendous 
extent.  In  the  cool  night  air,  picking  my  way  by 
the  light  of  lanterns,  amongst  huge  stones  and  be- 
tween rows  of  servants,  I  pass  through  a  series  of 
courts  two  hundred  metres  long,  with  I  don't 
know  how  many  ruined  porticoes  and  peristyles 
with  shaky  steps,  before  reaching  the  crumbling 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     237 

and  dusty  lodging  which  the  mandarin  intends  for 
me,  —  a  separate  building  in  the  midst  of  a  sort 
of  yard,  and  surrounded  by  old  trees  with  shape- 
less trunks.  There,  under  the  smoky  rafters,  I 
have  a  great  room,  with  whitewashed  walls,  con- 
taining in  the  centre  a  platform  with  seats  like  a 
throne,  also  some  heavy  ebony  arm-chairs;  and  as 
wall  decorations  some  rolls  of  silk  spread  out,  on 
which  poetry,  in  Manchou  characters,  is  written. 
In  the  wing  on  the  left  is  a  small  bedroom  for  my 
two  servants,  and  on  the  right  one  for  me  with 
window-panes  of  rice  paper.  On  a  platform  is 
a  very  hard  bed  with  covers  of  red  silk,  and,  lastly, 
an  incense  burner,  in  which  little  sticks  of  incense 
are  burning.  All  this  is  rural,  na'ive,  and  super- 
annuated, antiquated  even  for  China. 

My  timid  host,  in  ceremonial  costume,  awaits 
me  at  the  entrance,  and  makes  me  take  a  seat  with 
him  on  the  central  throne,  where  he  offers  me  the 
obligatory  tea  in  porcelain  a  hundred  years  old. 
Then  he  had  the  discretion  to  bring  the  audience 
to  a  close  and  to  bid  me  good-night.  As  he  with- 
drew he  told  me  not  to  be  disturbed  if  I  heard  a 
good  deal  of  coming  and  going  over  my  head,  as 
the  space  above  was  frequented  by  rats.  Neither 
was  I  to  be  disturbed  if  I  heard  on  the  other  side 
of  my  paper  window-panes  people  walking  up  and 
down  in  the  yard  playing  castanets;  they  would 


238     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

be  the  night  watchmen,  thus  informing  me  that 
they  were  not  asleep,  and  were  doing  their  duty. 

"  There  are  many  brigands  in  this  country,"  he 
added ;  "  the  city  with  its  high  walls  closes  its 
gates  at  sunset,  but  the  workmen  going  to  the 
fields  before  daybreak  have  made  a  hole  in  the  ram- 
parts, —  this  the  brigands  have  discovered,  and 
do  not  hesitate  to  enter  by  it." 

When  this  deep-bowing  mandarin  was  gone, 
and  I  was  alone  in  the  darkness  of  my  dwelling, 
in  the  heart  of  an  isolated  city  whose  gates  were 
guarded  by  human  heads  in  cages,  I  felt  myself 
at  an  infinite  distance  away,  separated  from  my 
own  world  by  immense  space  as  well  as  by  time, 
by  ages;  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  going  to 
sleep  amongst  a  people  at  least  a  thousand  years 
behind  our  era. 

SATURDAY,  April  27. 

The  crowing  of  cocks,  the  singing  of  little  birds 
on  my  roof,  awoke  me  in  my  strange  old  room; 
and  by  the  light  that  came  in  through  my  paper 
panes  I  guessed  that  the  warm  sun  was  shining  out 
of  doors. 

Osman  and  Renaud,  who  were  up  before  me, 
came  to  tell  me  that  they  were  hurriedly  making 
great  preparations  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Yamen 
in  order  to  give  me  a  fete,  a  morning  fete,  because 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     239 

we  had  to  continue  our  route  to  the  imperial  tombs 
soon  after  the  mid-day  meal. 

It  began  about  nine  o'clock.  I  was  given  a  seat 
in  an  arm-chair  beside  the  mandarin,  who  seemed 
weighed  down  beneath  his  silken  gowns.  In  front 
of  me,  in  the  dazzling  sunshine,  was  the  series  of 
courts  with  porticoes  of  irregular  outline  and  old 
monsters  on  pedestals.  A  crowd  of  Chinese  — 
always  the  men  alone,  it  is  understood  —  have 
assembled  in  their  eternal  blue  rags.  The  yellow 
wind  which  had  died  down  at  night,  as  usual, 
begins  to  blow  again,  and  to  whiten  the  heavens 
with  dust.  The  acacias  and  the  monotonous  wil- 
lows, which  are  almost  the  only  trees  scattered 
over  this  northern  China,  show  here  and  there  on 
their  slender  old  branches  little  pale-green  leaves 
just  barely  out. 

First  comes  the  slow,  the  very  slow,  passing  of 
a  band  with  many  gongs,  cymbals,  and  bells  all 
muffled ;  the  melody  seems  to  be  carried  by  a  sweet, 
melancholy,  and  persistent  unison  of  flutes, — large 
flutes,  with  a  deep  tone,  some  of  which  have  several 
tubes,  and  resemble  sheaves  of  wheat.  It  is  sweet 
and  lulling,  exquisite  to  hear. 

Now  the  musicians  seat  themselves  near  us,  in 
a  circle,  to  open  the  fete.  All  at  once  the  rhythm 
changes,  grows  more  rapid,  and  becomes  a  dance. 
Then  from  afar,  from  the  retirement  of  the  courts 


24o     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

and  the  old  porticoes,  one  sees  above  the  heads  of 
the  crowd,  through  the  dust  that  grows  thicker 
and  thicker,  a  troop  of  dancing  creatures  two  or 
three  times  taller  than  men,  swinging  along,  swing- 
ing in  regular  time  and  playing  citherns,  fanning 
themselves,  and  comporting  themselves  generally 
in  an  exaggerated,  nervous  epileptic  manner.  — 
Giants?  Jumping  Jacks?  What  can  they  be? 
They  are  approaching  rapidly  with  long,  leaping 
steps,  and  here  they  are  in  front  of  us.  Ah,  they 
are  on  stilts,  enormously  high  stilts.  They  are 
taller  on  their  wooden  legs  than  the  shepherds 
of  the  Landes,  and  they  hop  like  big  grasshoppers. 
They  are  in  costume  and  made  up,  —  painted, 
rouged.  They  have  wigs,  false  beards;  they  rep- 
resent gods,  genii  such  as  one  sees  on  old  pagodas ; 
they  represent  princesses  also,  with  beautiful  robes 
of  embroidered  silk,  with  cheeks  too  pink  and 
white,  and  with  artificial  flowers  in  their  chignons, 
—  princesses  all  very  tall,  fanning  themselves  in  an 
exaggerated  way,  and  swinging  along  like  the  rest 
of  the  company,  with  the  same  regular,  continuous 
movement,  as  persistent  as  the  pendulum  of  a 
clock. 

All  these  stilt-walkers,  it  seems,  are  merely 
young  men  of  a  neighboring  village,  who  have 
formed  themselves  into  a  gymnastic  society,  and 
who  do  this  for  amusement.  In  the  smallest  vil- 


TOMBS   OF  THE    EMPERORS     241 

lages  in  the  interior  of  China,  centuries,  yes,  thou- 
sands of  years,  before  the  custom  reached  us,  the 
men  —  fathers  and  sons  —  began  to  devote  them- 
selves passionately  to  feats  of  strength  and  skill, 
founding  rival  societies,  some  becoming  acrobats, 
others  balancers,  or  jugglers,  and  organizing  con- 
tests. It  is  especially  during  the  long  winters  that 
they  exercise,  when  all  is  frozen,  and  when  each 
little  human  group  must  live  alone  in  the  midst  of 
a  desert  of  snow. 

In  fact,  in  spite  of  their  white  wigs  and  their 
centenarian  beards,  it  is  obvious  that  all  these 
people  are  young,  very  young,  with  childlike  smiles. 
They  smile  naively,  these  droll,  pleasant  princesses 
with  the  over-long  legs,  whose  fan  motions  are  so 
excited  and  who  dance  more  and  more  disjointedly, 
bending,  reversing,  and  shaking  their  heads  and 
their  bodies  in  a  frenzy.  They  smile  naively,  these 
old  men  with  children's  faces;  they  play  the  cithern 
or  the  tambourine  as  though  they  were  possessed. 
The  persistent  unison  of  the  flutes  seems  to  be- 
witch them,  to  put  them  into  a  special  condition 
of  madness,  expressed  by  more  and  more  convul- 
sive movements. 

At  a  given  signal  each  one  stands  on  a  single 
stilt,  the  other  leg  raised,  the  second  stilt  thrown 
back  over  the  shoulder;  and  by  prodigies  of  bal- 
ancing they  dance  harder  than  ever,  like  mar- 

16 


242     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

ionettes  whose  springs  are  out  of  order,  whose 
mechanism  is  about  to  break  down.  Then  bars 
two  metres  high  are  brought  in,  and  they  jump 
over  them,  every  one  taking  part,  including  the 
princesses,  the  old  men,  and  the  genii,  all  keeping 
up  an  incessant  play  of  fans  and  a  beating  of 
tambourines. 

At  last,  when  they  can  hold  out  no  longer  and 
go  and  lean  against  the  porticoes  among  the  old 
acacias  and  willows,  another  company  just  like 
the  first  comes  forward  and  begins  again,  to  the 
same  tune,  a  similar  dance.  They  represent  the 
same  persons,  the  same  genii,  the  same  long- 
bearded  gods,  the  same  beautiful  mincing  dames. 
In  their  accoutrements,  so  unknown  to  us,  and  with 
their  curiously  wrinkled  faces,  these  dancers  are 
the  incarnation  of  ancient  mythological  dreams 
dreamed  long  ago  in  the  dark  ages  by  human 
beings  at  an  infinite  distance  from  us;  and  these 
customs  are  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  from  one  end  of  the  country 
to  the  other  in  that  unchanging  way  in  which 
rites,  forms,  and  property  in  China  are  invariably 
transmitted. 

This  fete,  this  dance,  extremely  novel  as  it  is, 
retains  its  village,  its  rustic  character,  and  is  as 
simple  as  any  truly  rural  entertainment. 

They  finally  cease  jumping  the  bars,  and  now 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     243 

two  terrible  beasts  come  forth,  one  red  and  one 
green.  They  are  big,  heraldic  dragons  at  least 
twenty  metres  long,  with  the  raised  heads,  the 
yawning  mouths,  the  horns,  and  claws,  and  hor- 
rible squinting  eyes  that  everybody  knows.  They 
advance  rapidly,  throwing  themselves  onto  the 
shoulders  of  the  crowd  with  the  undulations  of  a 
reptile;  they  are  light,  however,  made  of  paste- 
board, covered  with  some  sort  of  stuff,  and  each 
beast  is  supported  in  the  air  by  means  of  sticks,  by 
a  dozen  skilful  young  men  who  have  a  subtle  knack 
of  giving  to  their  movements  a  serpentine  effect. 
A  sort  of  master  of  the  ballet  precedes  them, 
holding  in  his  hand  a  ball  which  they  never  lose 
sight  of,  and  which  he  uses  as  the  leader  of  an 
orchestra  uses  his  baton,  to  guide  the  writhings 
of  the  monsters. 

The  two  great  creatures  content  themselves  with 
dancing  before  me,  to  the  sound  of  flutes  and 
gongs,  in  the  centre  of  the  circle  of  Chinese,  which 
is  extended  in  order  to  make  room  for  them.  At 
length  the  struggle  becomes  quite  terrible,  while 
the  gongs  and  cymbals  rage.  They  become  en- 
tangled, they  roll  on  top  of  one  another,  they  drag 
their  long  rings  in  the  dust,  and  then,  all  at  once, 
with  a  bound  they  get  up,  as  though  in  a  passion, 
and  stand  shaking  their  enormous  heads  at  one 
another,  trembling  with  rage.  The  ballet  master. 


244     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

nervously  moving  his  director's  ball,  throws  him- 
self about  and  rolls  his  ferocious  eyes. 

The  dust  on  the  crowd  grows  thicker  and  thicker, 
and  on  the  invisible  dragon-bearers;  it  rises  in 
clouds,  rendering  this  battle  between  the  red  beast 
and  the  green  beast  almost  fantastic.  The  sun 
burns  as  in  a  tropical  country,  and  yet  the  sad 
Chinese  April,  anaemic  from  such  a  drought  fol- 
lowing the  frozen  winter,  is  barely  heralded  by 
the  tender  color  of  the  few  tiny  leaves  on  the  old 
willows  and  acacias  of  the  court. 

After  breakfast  some  of  the  mandarins  of  the 
plain  from  the  neighboring  villages  arrive,  pre- 
ceded by  music  and  bringing  me  pastoral  offerings, 
—  baskets  of  preserved  grapes,  baskets  of  pears, 
live  chickens  in  cages,  and  a  jar  of  rice-wine. 
They  wear  the  official  winter  head-dress,  with  a 
raven's  quill,  and  have  on  gowns  of  dark  silk  with 
squares  of  gold  embroidery,  in  the  centre  of  which 
is  depicted,  surrounded  by  clouds,  the  invariable 
stork  flying  toward  the  moon.  They  are  nearly  all 
dried-up  old  men  with  gray  beards  and  drooping 
gray  moustaches.  We  have  great  tchinchins  with 
them,  profound  bows,  extravagant  compliments, 
handshakings  in  which  one  feels  the  scratch  of 
over-long  nails,  the  touch  of  thin  old  fingers. 

At  two  o'clock  I  remount  with  my  men  and  start 
off  through  the  dilapidated  streets,  preceded  by  the 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     245 

same  procession  as  upon  my  arrival.  The  gongs 
are  muffled,  the  heralds  sound  their  cries.  Behind 
me  my  host,  the  mandarin,  follows  in  his  palanquin, 
accompanied  by  the  troop  on  stilts  and  by  the 
enormous  dragons. 

As  we  leave  the  village,  and  enter  the  deep  tun- 
nelled gateway  where  the  crowd  is  already  as- 
sembled to  see  us,  the  whole  procession  is  engulfed 
with  us,  —  the  long,  striding  princesses,  the  gods 
who  play  the  cithern  or  the  tambourine,  the  red 
beast,  and  the  green  beast.  In  the  semi-obscurity 
of  the  arched  way,  to  the  noise  of  all  the  citherns 
and  of  all  the  gongs,  in  the  clouds  of  black  dust 
which  blind  us,  there  is  a  compact  melee,  where  our 
horses  prance  and  jump,  troubled  by  the  noise  and 
terrified  by  the  two  frightful  monsters  undulating 
above  our  heads. 

After  conducting  us  a  quarter  of  a  league  beyond 
the  walls,  the  procession  leaves  us  at  last,  and  we 
find  silence  again  on  the  burning  plain,  where  we 
have  about  twenty  kilometres  to  go  through  the 
dust  and  the  "  yellow  wind "  before  reaching 
Y-Tchou,  another  old  walled  city  which  is  to  be 
our  halting-place  for  the  night. 

Not  until  to-morrow  do  we  arrive  at  the  tombs. 


246     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 


III 

THE  plain  resembles  that  of  yesterday,  yet  it  is  a 
little  more  green  and  wooded.  The  wheat,  sown 
in  rows,  as  with  us,  grows  miraculously  in  this 
soil,  made  up  of  dust  and  cinders  though  it  appar- 
ently is.  Everything  seems  less  desolate  as  one 
gets  farther  away  from  the  region  of  Pekin,  and 
ascends  almost  imperceptibly  towards  those  great 
mountains  of  the  west,  which  are  appearing  with 
greater  and  greater  distinctness  in  front  of  us. 
The  "  yellow  wind,"  too,  blows  with  less  severity, 
and  when  it  dies  down  for  a  few  moments,  when 
the  blinding  dust  decreases,  it  is  like  the  country 
in  the  north  of  France,  with  its  ploughed  fields 
and  clumps  of  elms  and  willows.  One  forgets 
that  this  is  the  heart  of  China,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  globe,  and  one  expects  to  see  peasants  from 
home  pass  along  the  paths.  But  the  few  toilers 
who  are  bending  over  the  earth  have  long  braids, 
coiled  about  their  heads  like  crowns,  and  their 
bare  backs  are  saffron-colored. 

All  is  peace  in  these  sunshine-flooded  fields,  in 
these  villages  built  in  the  scanty  shade  of  the  wil- 
lows. The  people  seem  to  live  happily,  cultivating 
the  friendly  soil  in  primitive  fashion,  guided  by 
the  customs  of  five  thousand  years  ago.  Aside 


- 

;M.§  i  f  8  I 
ws'tt  * 


35 

o 

z 

< 

> 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     247 

from  the  possible  exactions  of  a  few  mandarins, 
—  and  there  are  many  who  are  kind,  —  these 
Chinese  peasants  still  live  in  the  Golden  Age,  and 
I  can  hardly  conceive  of  their  accepting  the  joys 
of  the  "  New  China  "  dreamed  of  by  Occidental 
reformers.  Up  to  this  time,  it  is  true,  the  inva- 
sion has  scarcely  reached  them;  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  occupied  solely  by  the  French,  our 
troops  have  never  played  any  other  role  than 
that  of  defender  of  the  villagers  against  pillaging 
Boxers.  Ploughing,  sowing,  all  the  work  of  the 
fields,  has  been  quietly  done  in  season,  and  it  is 
impossible  not  to  be  struck  with  the  very  different 
look  of  other  parts  of  the  country  which  I  will  not 
designate,  where  there  has  been  a  reign  of  terror, 
and  where  the  fields  have  been  destroyed  and  have 
become  desert  steppes. 

At  about  half-past  four,  against  a  background 
of  mountains  which  are  beginning  to  look  tall  to 
us,  a  village  appears,  the  first  sight  of  which,  like 
that  of  yesterday,  is  rather  formidable  with  its 
high  crenellated  ramparts. 

A  horseman  comes  out  to  meet  me  once  more, 
like  yesterday,  and  again  it  is  the  captain  in  com- 
mand of  the  post  of  marine  infantry  stationed 
there  since  last  autumn. 

Watchers  stationed  on  the  walls  have  perceived 


248     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

us  from  afar  by  the  cloud  of  dust  our  horses  raise 
on  the  plain.  As  soon  as  we  approach  we  see 
emerging  from  the  old  gates  the  official  proces- 
sion coming  to  meet  us,  with  the  same  emblems 
as  at  Lai-Chou-Chien,  —  the  same  big  butterfly, 
the  same  red  parasols,  the  same  shields  and  ban- 
ners. Each  Chinese  ceremonial  has  been  for  cen- 
turies regulated  by  unvarying  usages. 

However,  the  people  who  receive  me  to-day  are 
much  more  elegant  and  undoubtedly  richer  than 
those  of  yesterday.  The  mandarin,  who  comes 
down  from  his  sedan  chair  to  await  me  at  the  side 
of  the  road,  having  sent  his  red  paper  visiting- 
card  on  before  him  a  hundred  feet  or  so,  stands 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  important-looking  per- 
sons in  sumptuous  silk  robes.  He  himself  is  a 
distinguished-looking  old  man,  who  wears  in  his 
hat  the  peacock  feather  and  the  sapphire  button. 
There  is  an  enormous  crowd  waiting  to  see  me 
make  my  entrance  to  the  funereal  sound  of  the 
gongs  and  the"  prolonged  cries  of  the  heralds.  On 
the  top  of  the  ramparts  figures  may  be  seen  peer- 
ing through  the  battlements  with  their  small 
oblique  eyes,  and  even  in  the  dim  gateways  double 
rows  of  yellow  men  crowd  against  the  walls.  My 
interpreter  confesses,  however,  that  there  is  a  gen- 
eral disappointment.  "  If  he  is  a  man  of  letters," 
they  ask,  "why  is  he  dressed  like  a  colonel?" 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     249 

(The  scorn  of  the  Chinese  for  the  military  profes- 
sion is  well  known.)  My  horse,  however,  some- 
what restores  my  prestige.  Tired  as  the  poor 
Algerian  animal  is,  he  still  has  a  certain  carriage  of 
the  head  and  tail  when  he  feels  that  he  is  observed, 
and  especially  if  he  hears  the  sound  of  the  gong. 

Y-Tchou,  the  city  wherein  we  find  ourselves, 
shut  in  by  walls  thirty  feet  high,  still  contains  fif- 
teen thousand  inhabitants  in  spite  of  its  deserted 
districts  and  its  ruins.  There  is  a  great  crowd 
along  our  route,  in  all  the  little  streets  and  in 
front  of  the  little  old  shops  where  antediluvian 
occupations  are  carried  on.  It  was  from  this 
very  place  that  the  terrible  movement  of  hatred 
against  foreigners  was  launched  last  year.  In  a 
convent  of  Bonze  nuns  in  the  neighboring  moun- 
tain the  war  of  extermination  was  first  preached, 
and  these  people  who  receive  me  so  kindly  were 
the  first  Boxers.  Ardent  converts  for  the  moment 
to  the  French  cause,  they  cheerfully  decapitate 
those  of  their  own  people  who  refuse  to  come  to 
terms,  and  put  their  heads  in  the  little  cages  which 
adorn  the  gates  of  their  city;  but  if  the  wind 
should  change  to-morrow,  I  should  see  myself  cut 
up  by  them  to  the  tune  of  the  same  old  gongs  and 
with  the  same  enthusiasm  which  they  put  into  my 
reception.  When  I  have  taken  possession  of  the 
house  set  apart  for  me,  back  of  the  residence  of 


250    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

the  mandarin  at  the  end  of  an  interminable  avenue 
of  old  porticoes,  and  monsters  who  show  me  their 
teeth  in  tiger-like  smiles,  a  half-hour  of  day- 
light still  remains,  and  I  go  to  pay  a  visit  to  a 
young  prince  of  the  imperial  family,  stationed  at 
Y-Tchou  in  the  interests  of  the  venerable  tombs. 

First  comes  his  garden,  melancholy  in  the  April 
twilight.  It  lies  between  walls  of  gray  brick,  and 
is  very  much  shut  in  for  a  town  already  so  walled. 
Gray  also  is  the  rockwork  outlining  the  small 
squares  or  lozenges,  where  big  red,  lavender,  and 
pink  peonies  flourish.  These,  unlike  our  own,  are 
very  fragrant,  and  to-night  fill  the  air  of  this 
gloomy  enclosure  with  an  excessive  odor.  There 
are  also  rows  of  little  porcelain  jars  inhabited  by 
tiny  fish  —  regular  monstrosities  —  red  fish  or 
black  fish  with  cumbersome  fins  and  extravagant 
tails,  giving  the  effect  of  a  flounced  petticoat; 
fish  with  enormous  terrifying  eyes,  which  pro- 
trude like  those  of  the  heraldic  dragons  and  which 
are  the  result  of  I  do  not  know  what  mysterious 
form  of  breeding.  The  Chinese,  who  torture  the 
feet  of  their  women,  also  deform  their  trees,  so 
that  they  remain  dwarfed  and  crooked.  They 
train  their  fruits  to  resemble  animals,  and  their 
animals  to  look  like  the  chimaeras  of  a  dream. 

It  is  already  dark  in  the  prince's  apartment, 
which  looks  out  on  this  prison-like  garden,  and 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     251 

one  sees  little,  on  first  entering,  but  draperies  of 
red  silk,  long  canopies  falling  from  numerous 
"  parasols  of  honor,"  which  are  open  and  stand- 
ing upright  on  wooden  supports.  The  air  is  heavy, 
saturated  with  opium  and  musk.  There  are  deep 
red  divans  with  silver  pipes  lying  about  for  smok- 
ing the  poison  of  which  China  is  in  a  fair  way  to 
perish.  The  prince,  who  is  twenty  or  twenty-two 
years  old,  is  of  a  sickly  ugliness,  with  divergent 
eyes;  he  is  perfumed  to  excess,  and  dressed  in 
pale  silk  in  tones  of  mauve  or  lilac. 

In  the  evening  dinner  with  the  mandarin,  where 
the  commandant  of  the  French  post,  the  prince, 
two  or  three  notables,  and  one  of  my  "  confreres," 
a  member  of  the  Academy  of  China,  —  a  man- 
darin with  a  sapphire  button,  —  are  the  guests. 
Seated  in  heavy  square  arm-chairs,  there  are  six 
or  seven  of  us  around  a  table  decorated  with  small, 
exquisite,  and  unusual  bits  of  old  porcelain,  so 
tiny  as  to  seem  to  be  part  of  a  doll  service.  Red 
candles  in  high  copper  chandeliers  give  us  our 
light. 

This  very  morning  the  entire  province  had 
orders  to  leave  off  the  winter  head-dress  and  to 
put  on  the  summer  one,  —  a  conical  affair,  re- 
sembling a  lamp-shade,  from  which  fall  tufts  of 
reddish  horse-hair  or  peacock's  or  crow's  feathers, 


252     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

according  to  the  rank  of  the  wearer.  And  since 
it  is  the  style  to  wear  them  at  dinner,  hats  of  this 
description  make  grotesque  figures  of  the  guests. 

As  for  the  ladies  of  the  house,  they,  alas,  re- 
main invisible,  and  it  would  be  the  worst  possible 
breach  of  good  form  to  ask  for  them  or  to  refer 
to  them  in  any  way.  It  is  well  known  that  a 
Chinaman  compelled  to  speak  of  his  wife  must 
refer  to  her  in  an  indirect  way,  using,  whenever 
possible,  a  qualifying  term,  devoid  of  all  compli- 
ment, as,  for  example,  "  my  offensive  "  or  "  my 
nauseating  "  wife. 

The  dinner  begins  with  preserved  prunellas  and 
a  great  variety  of  dainty  sweetmeats,  which  are 
eaten  with  little  chop-sticks.  The  mandarin  makes 
excuses  for  not  offering  me  sea-swallows'  nests,  but 
Y-Tchou  is  so  far  from  the  coast  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  secure  what  one  would  like.  But  to  make 
up  for  this  lack,  there  is  a  dish  of  sharks'  fins, 
another  of  the  bladder  of  the  sperm  whale,  another 
still  of  hinds'  nerves,  besides  a  ragout  of  water- 
lily  roots  with  shrimps'  eggs. 

The  inevitable  odor  of  opium  and  musk  mingled 
with  the  flavor  of  strange  sauces  pervades  the 
room,  which  is  white  with  a  black  ceiling.  Its 
walls  are  decorated  with  water-colors  on  long 
strips  of  precious  yellow  paper,  containing  repre- 
sentations of  animals  or  of  huge  flowers.  A  score 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     253 

of  servants  flock  about  us  with  the  same  sort  of 
head-dress  as  their  masters,  and  clad  in  beautiful 
silk  gowns  with  velvet  corselets.  At  my  right  my 
"  confrere "  of  the  Chinese  Academy  discourses 
to  me  of  another  world.  He  is  old  and  quite 
withered-looking  from  the  abuse  of  the  fatal  drug ; 
his  small  face,  shrivelled  to  a  mere  nothing,  is 
obliterated  by  his  conical  hat  and  by  his  big  blue 
goggles. 

"  Is  it  true,"  he  inquires,  "  that  the  Middle  Em- 
pire occupies  the  top  of  the  territorial  globe,  and 
that  Europe  hangs  on  one  side  at  an  uncom- 
fortable angle  ?  " 

It  appears  that  he  has  at  the  ends  of  his  fingers 
more  than  forty  thousand  characters  in  writing, 
and  that  he  is  able  to  improvise  sweet  poetry  on 
any  subject  you  may  choose.  From  time  to  time 
I  am  aghast  at  the  sight  of  his  skeleton-like  arm 
emerging  from  sleeves  like  pagodas,  and  stretch- 
ing out  toward  some  dish.  His  object  is  to  secure 
with  his  own  two-tined  fork  some  choice  morsel 
for  me,  which  compels  me  to  resort  to  perpetual 
and  difficult  jugglery  in  order  not  to  have  to  eat 
the  things. 

After  several  preposterous  light  dishes,  boned 
ducks  appear,  then  a  copious  variety  of  viands 
succeed  one  another  until  the  guests  announce 
that  they  really  have  had  enough.  Then  they 


254     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

bring  opium  pipes  and  cigarettes,  and  soon  it  is 
time  to  take  a  palanquin  for  the  nocturnal  festi- 
val they  are  arranging  for  me. 

Outside,  in  the  long  avenue  of  porticoes,  under 
the  starry  sky,  all  the  servants  of  the  Yamen  await 
us  with  big  paper  lanterns,  painted  with  bats  and 
chimaeras.  A  hundred  friendly  Boxers  are  also 
there,  holding  torches  to  light  us  better.  Each  of 
us  gets  into  a  palanquin,  and  the  bearers  trot  off 
with  us,  while  flaming  torches  run  along  beside 
us,  and  gongs,  also  running,  begin  the  noise  of 
battle  at  the  head  of  our  procession. 

By  the  light  of  dancing  torches  we  file  rapidly 
past  the  open  stalls,  past  the  groups  of  natives 
assembled  to  watch  us,  past  the  grimacing  mon- 
sters ranged  along  our  route. 

At  the  rear  of  an  immense  court  stands  a  new 
building,  where  by  the  light  of  the  torches  we 
read  the  astonishing  inscription,  "  Parisiana  of 
Y-Tchou."  "  Parisiana "  in  this  ultra-Chinese 
town,  which  until  the  previous  autumn  had  never 
seen  a  European  approach  its  walls !  Our  bearers 
stop  there,  and  we  find  it  is  a  theatre  improvised 
this  winter  by  our  sixty  soldiers  to  help  pass  away 
the  glacial  evenings. 

I  had  promised  to  assist  at  a  gala  performance 
given  for  me  by  these  grown-up  children  this  even- 
ing. And  of  all  the  charming  receptions  that  have 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     255 

been  tendered  me  here  and  there  all  over  the  world, 
none  has  moved  me  more  than  this  one  arranged 
by  a  few  soldiers  exiled  in  a  lost  corner  of  China. 
Their  reserved  smiles  of  welcome,  the  few  words 
one  of  them  undertook  to  say  for  all,  were  more 
touching  than  any  banquet  or  formal  address,  and 
I  was  glad  to  press  the  hands  of  the  brave  soldiers 
who  dared  not  offer  them. 

In  order  that  I  might  have  a  souvenir  of  their 
evening's  hospitality  at  Y-Tchou,  they  got  up  a 
subscription  and  presented  me  with  a  very  local 
gift,  —  one  of  those  red  silk  parasols  with  long 
falling  draperies,  which  it  is  the  custom  in  China 
to  carry  in  front  of  men  of  mark.  And  cumbrous 
as  the  thing  is,  even  when  folded,  it  is  needless  to 
say  that  I  shall  take  it  with  great  care  to  France. 

They  next  gave  me  an  illustrated  programme, 
on  which  the  name  of  each  actor  figured,  followed 
by  a  pompous  title,  —  "  Monsieur  the  soldier  so- 
and-so  of  the  Comedie-Frangaise,"  or  "  Monsieur 
the  corporal  so-and-so  of  the  Theatre  Sarah-Bern- 
hardt."  We  take  our  places.  It  is  a  real  theatre 
that  they  have  made,  with  a  raised  stage,  scenery, 
and  a  curtain. 

In  the  Chinese  arm-chairs,  which  are  placed  in 
the  first  row,  their  captain  is  seated  next  to  me; 
then  come  the  mandarin,  the  prince  of  the  blood, 
and  two  or  three  other  notables,  with  long  queues. 


256     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

Behind  us  are  the  under-officers  and  the  soldiers; 
several  yellow  babies  in  ceremonial  toilettes  mingle 
familiarly  with  them,  even  climbing  up  on  their 
knees.  They  are  pupils  from  their  school.  For 
they  have  started  a  school,  like  the  one  at  La'i- 
Chou-Chien,  to  teach  French  to  the  children  of 
the  neighborhood.  A  sergeant  presented  me  ,to 
an  inimitable  youngster  of  not  more  than  six, 
dressed  for  the  occasion  in  a  beautiful  gown,  his 
little  short,  thick  queue  tied  with  red  silk,  who 
recited  for  me  the  beginning  of  "  Maitre  corbeau 
sur  un  arbre  perche,"  in  a  deep  voice,  rolling  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling  the  while. 

Three  taps  and  the  curtain  rises.  First  comes 
a  farce,  by  I  know  not  whom,  but  certainly  much 
retouched  by  themselves  with  an  unexpected  turn 
of  wit  which  is  irresistible.  The  ladies,  the 
mothers-in-law,  with  false  hair  made  of  oakum, 
are  indescribable.  Then  more  comic  scenes  and 
songs  from  the  "  Black  Cat."  The  Chinese  guests 
on  their  throne-like  chairs  remain  as  impassive  as 
the  Buddhas  of  the  pagodas.  What  do  their  Asi- 
atic brains  make  of  all  this  French  gaiety? 

Before  the  last  numbers  on  the  programme  are 
over  the  sudden  thundering  of  gongs  is  heard 
outside,  the  playing  of  citherns,  and  the  clashing 
of  cymbals,  and  of  all  the  rest  of  the  iron  instru- 
ments of  China.  It  is  the  prelude  to  the  fete 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     257 

which  the  mandarin  is  to  give  me,  which  is  to 
take  place  in  the  courtyard  of  the  army  quarters, 
and  in  which  our  soldiers  naturally  are  to  take 
part. 

A  profusion  of  lanterns  illumines  the  court, 
together  with  the  flaming  torches  of  a  hundred 
Boxers.  First  there  is  a  stilt  dance,  then  follow 
all  the  gymnastic  societies  of  the  adjoining  dis- 
trict in  their  specialties.  Little  country  boys 
twelve  years  old,  costumed  like  lords  of  old  dy- 
nasties, have  a  sham  battle,  flourishing  their 
swords  and  jumping  about  like  kittens,  prodigies 
of  quickness  and  lightness.  Then  come  the  young 
men  of  another  village,  who  throw  off  their  gar- 
ments and  begin  to  twirl  pitchforks  all  around 
their  naked  bodies;  by  a  twist  of  the  wrist  or  by 
an  imperceptible  movement  of  the  foot  they  are 
turned  so  rapidly  that  very  soon  they  are  no 
longer  forks  to  our  eyes,  but  a  row  of  endless 
serpents  about  the  breasts  of  the  men.  Then  sud- 
denly, more  deftly  than  in  the  best  managed  circus, 
a  horizontal  bar  is  placed  before  us,  and  acrobats, 
naked  to  the  waist,  and  superbly  muscular,  give  a 
performance.  They  belong  to  the  mandarin,  and 
are  the  very  men  who  just  now  served  us  at  the 
table  in  beautiful  silken  robes. 

It  all  ended  with  very  long  and  noisy  fire- 
works. When  the  pieces  attached  to  invisible 

17 


258     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

bamboo  stems  exploded  in  the  air,  delicate  and 
luminous  paper  pagodas  floated  off  across  the 
starry  sky,  fabrics  of  a  Chinese  dream,  trem- 
bling, imponderable,  which  suddenly  took  fire  and 
disappeared  in  smoke. 

It  is  late  when  we  return  through  the  little  dark 
streets,  now  all  asleep.  Our  bearers  trot  along,  es- 
corted by  a  thousand  dancing  lights  from  torches 
and  lanterns. 

Toward  midnight  I  am  at  last  alone,  in  the 
depths  of  the  Yamen,  in  my  separate  dwelling, 
the  avenue  leading  to  it  guarded  by  motionless, 
crouching  beasts.  On  my  centre-table  they  have 
placed  a  luncheon  of  all  the  kinds  of  cakes  known 
to  China.  Trees  in  fruit,  in  flower,  and  without 
leaves,  decorate  my  small  tables,  —  dwarf  trees, 
of  course,  grown  in  porcelain  jars,  and  so  tortured 
as  to  become  unnatural.  A  little  pear-tree  has 
assumed  the  regular  form  of  a  lyre  composed  of 
white  blossoms;  a  small  peach-tree  resembles  a 
crown  made  of  pink  flowers.  Everything  in  my 
room,  except  these  fresh  spring  plants,  is  old, 
warped,  worm-eaten,  and  at  the  holes  in  a  ceiling 
that  was  once  white  appear  the  faces  of  innumer- 
able rats,  whose  eyes  follow  me  about  the  room. 
As  soon  as  I  put  out  my  light  and  lie  down  in  my 
great  bed  with  carvings  representing  horrible  ani- 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     259 

mals,  I  hear  all  these  rats  come  down,  move  about 
among  the  fine  porcelains,  and  gnaw  at  my  cakes. 
Then  from  out  the  more  and  more  profound  still- 
ness of  my  surroundings  the  night  watchmen  with 
muffled  steps  begin  discreetly  to  use  their  castanets. 


SUNDAY,  April  28. 

An  early  morning  walk  among  the  silver-sculp- 
tors of  Y-Tchou,  then  through  a  quite  dead  part 
of  the  town  to  an  antique  pagoda  half  crumbled 
away,  which  stands  among  some  phantom  trees 
of  which  little  but  the  bark  is  left.  Along  its 
galleries  the  tortures  of  the  Buddhist  hell  are  de- 
picted; several  hundred  life-sized  persons  carved 
in  wood  filled  with  worm-holes,  are  fighting  with 
devils  who  are  tearing  them  to  pieces  or  burning 
them  alive. 

At  nine  o'clock  I  mount  my  horse  and  start  off 
with  my  men,  in  order  to  cover  before  noon  the 
fifteen  or  eighteen  kilometres  which  still  separate 
me  from  the  mysterious  burial-places  of  the  em- 
perors; for  we  return  to  Y-Tchou  for  the  night, 
and  set  off  again  to-morrow  on  the  road  to  Pekin. 

We  go  out  at  the  gate  opposite  the  one  we  en- 
tered yesterday.  Nowhere  else  have  we  seen  so 
many  monsters  as  in  this  ancient  town ;  their  great 


260     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

sneering  faces  appear  on  all  sides  out  of  the  ground, 
where  time  has  almost  buried  them.  A  few  entire 
figures  may  be  seen  crouching  on  their  pedestals, 
guarding  the  approaches  to  the  granite  bridges  or 
ranged  in  rows  around  the  squares. 

As  we  leave  the  town,  we  pass  a  poor-looking 
pagoda  on  whose  walls  hang  cages  containing 
human  heads  recently  cut  off.  And  then  we  find 
ourselves  once  more  in  the  silent  fields  under  the 
burning  sun. 

The  prince  accompanies  us,  riding  a  Mongolian 
colt  as  rough-coated  as  a  spaniel.  His  rose-colored 
silks  and  velvet  foot-gear  form  a  striking  contrast 
to  our  rough  costumes  and  dusty  boots,  and  he 
leaves  behind  him  a  trail  of  musk. 


IV 

THE  country  slopes  gently  toward  the  range  of 
Mongolian  mountains,  which,  though  still  some 
distance  ahead  of  us,  is  now  growing  rapidly  in 
height.  Trees  are  more  and  more  frequent,  grass 
grows  naturally  here  and  there,  and  we  have  left 
the  dreary  ashy  soil. 

Near  by  there  are  a  few  pointed-topped  hills, 
queerly  shaped,  with  occasionally  an  old  tower 
perched  on  the  summit, — the  ten  or  twelve  storied 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     261 

kind,  which  at  once  give  the  landscape  a  Chinese 
look,  with  superimposed  roofs,  curved  up  like  dogs' 
ears,  at  the  corners,  with  an  JEolian  harp  at  each 
end. 

The  air  is  growing  purer;  the  cloud  of  dust  is 
left  behind  as  we  approach  the  unquestionably 
privileged  region  which  has  been  selected  for  the 
repose  of  the  celestial  emperors  and  empresses. 

We  stop  at  a  village,  after  about  a  dozen  kilo- 
metres, to  take  breakfast  with  a  great  prince  of 
much  higher  rank  than  the  one  who  rides  with 
us.  He  is  a  direct  uncle  of  the  Emperor,  in  dis- 
grace with  the  Empress,  whose  favorite  he  has 
been,  and  now  entrusted  with  the  guardianship  of 
the  tombs.  As  he  is  in  deep  mourning,  he  is 
dressed  in  cotton  like  the  poor,  and  yet  does  not 
resemble  them.  He  makes  excuses  for  receiving 
us  in  a  dilapidated  old  house,  his  own  Yamen 
having  been  burned  by  the  Germans,  and  offers  us 
a  very  Chinese  breakfast,  where  reappear  the 
sharks'  wings  and  hinds'  nerves.  The  flat-faced 
peasants  of  the  neighborhood  peer  at  us  in  the 
meantime  through  the  numerous  holes  in  the  rice- 
paper  window-panes. 

We  remount  at  once,  after  the  last  cup  of  tea, 
to  visit  the  tombs  toward  which  we  have  been  jour- 
neying for  three  days,  and  which  are  now  very 
near.  My  confrere  of  the  Pekin  Academy,  with 


262     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

his  big,  round  spectacles  and  his  little  bird-like 
body  completely  lost  in  his  beautiful  silken  robes, 
has  rejoined  us,  and  slowly  follows  along  upon  a 
mule. 

A  more  and  more  solitary  country.  No  more 
villages,  no  more  fields!  The  road  winds  along 
among  the  hills,  —  which  are  covered  with  grass 
and  flowers,  —  surprising  and  enchanting  our  un- 
accustomed eyes.  It  seems  like  a  glimpse  of  Eden 
after  the  dusty-gray  China  we  have  come  through, 
where  the  only  green  thing  was  the  wheat.  The 
perpetual  dust  of  Petchili  has  been  left  behind; 
but  on  the  plain  below  we  still  perceive  it,  like  a 
fog  from  which  we  have  escaped. 

We  continue  to  mount,  and  soon  arrive  at  the 
first  spurs  of  the  Mongolian  range.  Here  behind  a 
wall  of  earth  we  find  an  immense  Tartar  camp,  at 
least  two  thousand  men,  armed  with  lances,  bows, 
and  arrows,  guard  of  honor  of  the  defunct  rulers. 

Once  more  we  see  a  clear  horizon,  the  very 
memory  of  which  had  faded.  It  seems  as  though 
these  Mongolian  mountains  suddenly  huddled  to- 
gether as  though  they  had  all  pressed  forward; 
very  rocky  they  are,  with  strange  outlines,  peaks 
like  turrets  or  pagoda-towers  rising  above  us,  — 
all  of  a  beautiful  purple  iris  effect. 

Ahead  of  us  we  begin  to  see  on  all  sides  wooded 
valleys  and  forests  of  cedar.  True,  they  are  arti- 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     263 

ficial  forests,  although  very  old, — planted  centuries 
ago  for  this  funeral  park,  covering  an  area  twenty 
miles  in  circumference,  where  four  Tartar  em- 
perors sleep. 

We  enter  this  silent,  shadowy  place,  astonished 
to  find  that,  contrary  to  Chinese  custom,  it  is  sur- 
rounded by  no  wall.  No  doubt  it  was  felt  that  this 
isolated  spot  would  be  sufficiently  protected  by  the 
terror  inspired  by  the  shades  of  the  emperors,  as 
well  as  by  a  general  edict  of  death  promulgated  in 
advance  against  any  one  who  dared  to  cultivate  a 
bit  of  the  ground  or  even  sow  a  seed. 

It  is  the  sacred  wood  par  excellence,  with  all  its 
retirement  and  its  mystery.  What  marvellous 
poets  of  the  dead  the  Chinese  are,  to  be  able  to 
prepare  them  such  dwelling-places! 

Here  in  the  shadows  one  is  tempted  to  speak 
low,  as  under  the  roof  of  a  temple;  one  feels  it  a 
profanity  for  the  horses  to  trample  down  the  turf, 
—  a  carpet  of  fine  grass  and  blossoms,  venerated 
for  ages  past,  and  apparently  never  disturbed.  The 
great  cedars  and  the  hundred-year-old  thuyas, 
scattered  over  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys,  are  sep- 
arated by  open  spaces  where  brushwood  grows; 
and  under  the  colonnade  formed  by  their  massive 
trunks  there  is  nothing  but  short  grass,  exquisite 
tiny  flowers,  and  moss  and  lichens. 

The  dust  that  obscures  the  sky  on  the  plains 


264    THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

apparently  never  reaches  this  chosen  spot,  for  the 
magnificent  green  of  the  trees  is  nowhere  dimmed. 
In  this  superb  solitude,  which  men  have  created 
here  and  dedicated  to  the  shades  of  their  masters, 
the  distance  disclosed  to  us  as  our  road  takes  us 
past  some  clearing  or  up  some  height  is  of  an 
absolute  limpidity.  A  light  as  from  Paradise  falls 
upon  us  from  a  heaven  profoundly  blue,  streaked 
with  tiny  clouds,  rose-gray  like  turtle-doves.  At 
such  moments  one  gets  a  glimpse  of  splendid  dis- 
tant golden-yellow  roofs  rising  amongst  sombre 
branches,  like  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 

Not  a  soul  in  all  this  shaded  road.  The  silence 
of  the  desert!  Only  occasionally  the  croaking  of 
a  raven,  —  too  funereal  a  bird,  it  seems,  for  the 
calm  enchantment  of  this  place,  where  Death  is 
compelled,  before  entering,  to  lay  aside  its  horror 
and  to  become  simply  the  magician  of  unending 
rest. 

In  some  places  the  trees  form  avenues  which  are 
finally  lost  to  sight  in  the  green  dusk.  Elsewhere 
they  have  been  planted  without  design,  and  seem 
to  have  grown  of  their  own  accord  and  to  form  a 
natural  forest.  All  the  details  recall  the  fact  that 
the  place  is  magnificent,  imperial,  sacred;  the 
smallest  bridge,  thrown  over  a  stream  which 
crosses  the  road,  is  of  white  marble  of  rare  design, 
covered  with  beautiful  carvings;  an  heraldic 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     265 

* 

beast,  crouching  in  the  shadow,  menaces  us  with 
a  ferocious  smile  as  we  pass  by,  or  a  marble  obe- 
lisk surrounded  by  five-clawed  dragons  rises  un- 
expectedly in  its  snowy  whiteness,  outlined  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  cedars. 

In  this  wood,  twenty  miles  in  circumference,  lie 
the  bodies  of  but  four  emperors;  that  of  the  Em- 
press Regent,  whose  tomb  was  long  since  begun, 
will  be  added  as  well  as  her  son's,  the  young  Em- 
peror, who  has  had  his  chosen  place  marked  with 
a  stele  of  gray  marble.1  And  that  is  all.  Other 
sovereigns,  past  or  to  be,  sleep,  or  will  sleep,  else- 
where, in  other  Edens,  as  vast  and  as  wonderfully 
arranged.  Immense  space  is  required  for  the  body 
of  a  Son  of  Heaven,  and  immense  solitary  silence 
must  reign  round  about  it. 

The  arrangement  of  these  tombs  is  regulated  by 
unchangeable  plans,  which  date  back  to  old  extin- 
guished dynasties.  They  are  all  alike,  recalling 
those  of  the  Ming  emperors,  which  antedate  them 
by  several  centuries,  and  whose  ruins  have  been 
for  a  long  time  the  object  of  one  of  the  excursions 
permitted  to  European  travellers. 

One  invariably  approaches  by  a  cut  in  the  sombre 
forest,  half  a  mile  in  length,  which  has  been  so 

*  His  subjects  have  had  engraven  on  'this  stele  an  inscription 
expressing  the  hope  that  their  sovereign  may  live  ten  times  ten 
thousand  years. 


266     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

planned  by  the  artists  of  the  past  that  it  opens,  like 
the  doors  of  a  magnificent  stage-setting,  upon 
some  incomparable  background  such  as  a  particu- 
larly high  mountain,  abrupt  and  bold,  or  a  mass 
of  rock  presenting  one  of  those  anomalies  of  form 
and  color  that  the  Chinese  everywhere  seek. 

Invariably,  also,  the  avenue  begins  with  great 
triumphal  arches  of  white  marble,  which  are,  need- 
less to  say,  surmounted  by  monsters  bristling  with 
horns  and  claws. 

In  the  case  of  the  ancestor  of  the  present  Em- 
peror, who  receives  to-day  our  first  visit,  these 
entrance  arches  appear  unexpectedly  in  the  heart 
of  the  forest,  their  bases  entangled  with  wild  bind- 
weed. They  seem  to  have  shot  up,  at  the  rubbing 
of  an  enchanter's  magic  ring,  out  of  what  appears 
to  be  virgin  soil,  so  covered  is  it  with  moss  and 
with  the  rare  delicate  little  plants  which  nothing 
disturbs,  and  which  grow  only  in  places  that  have 
long  been  quiet  and  respected  by  man. 

Next  come  some  marble  bridges  with  semi- 
circular arches;  there  are  three  bridges  exactly 
alike,  for  each  time  an  emperor  passes,  dead  or 
alive,  the  middle  bridge  is  reserved  for  him  alone. 
The  architects  of  the  tombs  were  careful  to  have 
the  avenue  crossed  several  times  by  artificial 
streams,  in  order  to  have  an  occasion  for  spanning 
them  with  these  charming  curves  of  everlasting 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     267 

white.  On  each  rail  of  the  bridge  there  is  an  inter- 
twining of  imperial  fancies.  The  sloping  pave- 
ment is  white  and  slippery,  and  completely  framed 
in  grass,  which  pushes  through  and  flourishes  in 
all  its  joinings. 

The  crossing  is  dangerously  slippery  for  our 
horses,  whose  steps  resound  mournfully  on  the 
marble ;  the  sudden  noise  we  make  in  the  stillness 
is  almost  a  source  of  embarrassment  to  us,  making 
us  feel  as  though  our  coming  had  disturbed  in  an 
unseemly  manner  the  composure  of  the  necrop- 
olis. With  the  exception  of  ourselves  and  a  few 
ravens  in  the  trees,  nothing  moves  and  nothing 
lives  in  all  the  immensity  of  this  memorial 
park. 

Beyond  the  three  arched  bridges  the  avenue  leads 
to  the  first  temple,  with  a  yellow  enamelled  roof, 
which  seems  to  bar  our  way.  At  the  four  corners 
of  the  open  space  it  occupies,  rise  four  rostral  col- 
umns made  of  marble,  white  as  ivory,  —  admirable 
monoliths,  with  a  crouching  animal  at  the  top  of 
each  one,  similar  to  those  enthroned  on  the  obe- 
lisks in  front  of  the  palace  at  Pekin,  —  a  sort  of 
slender  jackal,  with  long,  erect  ears,  upturned  eyes, 
and  a  mouth  open  as  if  howling  to  heaven.  This 
first  temple  contains  nothing  but  three  giant  stele, 
resting  on  marble  turtles  as  large  as  leviathans. 
They  recount  the  glory  of  a  defunct  emperor;  the 


268     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

first  is  inscribed  in  the  Tartar  language,  the  second 
in  Chinese,  the  third  in  Manchou. 

Beyond  this  temple  of  stele  the  avenue  is  pro- 
longed in  the  same  direction  for  an  indefinite 
length,  very  majestic  with  its  two  walls  of  black- 
green  cedars,  and  its  carpet  of  grass,  flowers, 
and  moss,  which  looks  as  though  it  were  never 
trampled  upon.  All  the  avenues  in  these  woods 
are  always  thus  deserted,  always  silent,  for  the 
Chinese  come  here  only  at  rare  intervals,  in  solemn, 
respectful  processions  to  perform  their  funeral 
rites.  And  it  is  the  air  of  desertion  in  the  midst 
of  splendor  which  is  the  great  charm  of  this  place, 
unique  in  all  the  world. 

When  the  Allies  have  left  China,  this  park  of 
tombs,  open  to  us  for  a  single  moment,  will  be  once 
more  impenetrable  for  how  long  we  do  not  know ; 
perhaps  until  another  invasion,  which  may  cause 
the  venerable  yellow  Colossus  to  crumble  away,  — 
unless,  indeed,  it  awakes  from  its  slumber  of  a 
thousand  years;  for  the  Colossus  is  still  capable 
of  spreading  terror,  and  of  arming  itself  for  a 
revenge  of  which  one  dares  not  think  —  Man 
Dieu!  the  day  when  China,  in  the  place  of  its  small 
regiments  of  mercenaries  and  bandits,  shall  arm 
in  mass  for  a  supreme  revolt  its  millions  of  young 
peasants  such  as  I  have  recently  seen,  sober,  cruel, 
spare,  muscular,  accustomed  to  every  sort  of  phys- 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     269 

ical  exercise,  and  defiant  of  death,  what  a  terri- 
fying army  it  will  have,  if  modern  instruments 
of  destruction  are  placed  in  their  hands!  On 
reflection,  it  seems  as  though  certain  of  the  Allies 
have  been  rather  rash  to  have  sown  here  so  many 
seeds  of  hatred,  and  to  have  created  so  much  desire 
for  vengeance. 

Now,  at  the  end  of  the  dark  deserted  green 
avenue  the  final  temple  shows  its  shining  roof. 
The  mountain  above,  the  strange,  crenellated  moun- 
tain, which  has  been  chosen  as  a  sort  of  back- 
ground for  all  this  sad  creation,  rises  to-day  all 
violet  and  rose  against  a  bit  of  rare  blue  sky,  — 
the  blue  of  a  turquoise  turning  to  green.  The  light 
continues  to  be  modified,  exquisite;  the  sun  is 
veiled  by  the  same  clouds  that  in  color  remind  one 
of  turtle-doves,  and  we  no  longer  hear  our  horses' 
steps,  so  thick  is  the  carpet  of  grass  and  moss. 

Now  one  catches  sight  of  the  great  triple  doors 
of  the  sanctuary;  they  are  blood-red  with  hinges 
of  gold.  Then  comes  the  whiteness  of  three  marble 
bridges  with  slippery  pavements,  in  crossing  which 
my  little  army  makes  an  exaggerated  noise,  as 
though  the  rows  of  cedars  ranged  like  a  wall  on 
either  side  of  us  had  the  sonority  of  a  church. 
From  here  on,  as  if  to  guard  the  ever  more  sacred 
approach,  tall  marble  statues  are  lined  up  on  each 
side  of  the  avenue.  We  pass  between  motionless 


270    THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

elephants,  horses,  lions,  and  mute  white  warriors, 
three  times  the  height  of  man. 

As  we  approach  the  white  terraces  of  the  temple 
we  begin  to  perceive  the  ravages  of  war.  The 
German  soldiers,  who  were  here  before  ours,  tore 
out  in  places,  with  the  points  of  their  swords,  the 
beautiful  gilded  bronze  decorations  of  the  red 
doors,  taking  them  to  be  gold. 

In  the  first  court  of  one  of  the  lateral  edifices, 
whose  roofs  are  as  sumptuously  enamelled  as  those 
of  the  big  sanctuary,  are  the  kitchens,  —  where  are 
prepared  at  certain  times  repasts  for  the  Shadow 
of  Death,  —  extensive  enough  to  provide  for  a 
legion  of  ogres  or  vampires.  Enormous  ovens, 
enormous  bronze  troughs  in  which  whole  oxen  are 
cooked,  are  still  intact ;  but  the  pavement  is  littered 
with  broken  porcelains,  with  fragments  which  are 
the  result  of  a  blow  with  the  butt  end  of  a  gun  or 
a  bayonet. 

On  a  high  terrace,  after  passing  two  or  three 
courts  paved  with  marble,  after  two  or  three  en- 
closures entered  by  triple  doors  of  cedar,  the  cen- 
tral temple  opens  before  us,  empty  and  devastated. 
It  is  magnificent  in  its  proportions,  with  tall  col- 
umns of  red  and  gold  lacquer,  but  it  has  been  de- 
spoiled of  its  sacred  riches.  Heavy  silk  hangings, 
idols,  silver  drinking-vessels,  flat  silver  dishes  for 
the  feasts  of  the  Shades  had  almost  entirely  dis- 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     271 

appeared  when  the  French  arrived,  and  what  re- 
mained of  the  treasures  has  been  collected  in  a 
safe  place  by  our  officers.  Two  of  them  have  just 
been  decorated  by  the  Emperor  of  China  for  this 
preservation  of  property,  and  it  is  one  of  the  most 
curious  episodes  of  this  abnormal  war,  the  sov- 
ereign of  the  invaded  country  spontaneously  deco- 
rating the  officers  of  the  invading  army  out  of 
gratitude.  Behind  the  last  temple  is  the  colossal 
tomb. 

For  the  interment  of  an  emperor  the  Chinese 
cut  a  piece  out  of  a  hill  as  one  would  cut  out  a 
portion  from  a  Titanic  cake;  then  they  isolate 
it  by  enormous  excavations  and  surround  it  with 
crenellated  ramparts.  It  thus  becomes  a  massive 
citadel.  Then  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  they  dig 
a  sepulchral  passageway  known  only  to  the  ini- 
tiated, and  at  its  end  they  place  the  emperor,  not 
mummified,  but  in  a  thick  coffin  made  of  cedar 
lacquered  in  gold,  which  must  prevent  rapid  dis- 
integration. Then  they  seal  forever  the  subter- 
ranean door  by  a  kind  of  screen  of  faience, 
invariably  yellow  and  green,  with  relief  repre- 
senting the  lotus,  dragons,  or  clouds.  Each  sov- 
ereign in  his  turn  is  buried  and  sealed  up  in  the 
same  manner,  —  in  the  midst  of  a  forest  region 
equally  vast  and  equally  solitary. 

At  last  we  arrive  at  the  end  of  this  section  of  a 


272     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

hill  and  of  this  rampart,  stopped  in  our  course  by 
a  melancholy  screen  of  yellow  and  green  faience, 
which  seems  to  be  the  end  of  our  forty-league 
journey.  It  is  a  square  screen,  twenty  feet  each 
way,  brilliant  with  color  and  varnish,  and  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  the  gray  brick  wall  and  gray  earth. 

The  ravens  are  massed  here  as  though  they 
divined  the  sinister  thing  concealed  from  them  in 
the  heart  of  the  mountain,  and  receive  us  with  a 
chorus  of  cries. 

Opposite  the  faience  screen  is  an  altar  of  rough- 
hewn  marble,  whose  brutal  simplicity  is  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  the  splendors  of  the  temple  and 
the  avenue.  It  supports  a  sort  of  incense  burner 
of  unknown  and  tragic  significance,  and  two  or 
three  symbolic  articles  intentionally  rude  in  work- 
manship. One  is  confounded  by  the  strange  forms, 
the  almost  primitive  barbarity  of  these  last  and 
supreme  objects  at  the  threshold  of  the  tomb; 
their  aspect  is  intended  to  create  a  sort  of  inde- 
finable terror.  I  remember  once,  in  the  holy 
mountain  at  Nikko,  where  sleep  the  emperors  of 
old  Japan,  that  after  the  fairy-like  magnificence 
of  gold-lacquered  temples,  outside  the  little  bronze 
door  which  forms  the  entrance  to  each  sepulture, 
I  stumbled  against  just  such  an  altar,  supporting 
two  or  three  worn  emblems,  as  disturbing  as  these 
in  their  artificial  barbaric  naivete. 


TOMBS   OF   THE   EMPERORS     273 

It  seems  that  in  these  subterranean  passages  of 
the  Son  of  Heaven  there  are  heaps  of  treasures, 
precious  stones,  and  metals.  Those  who  are  au- 
thorities in  Chinese  matters  assured  our  generals 
that  enough  would  be  found  about  the  body  of  a 
single  emperor  to  pay  the  war  indemnity  de- 
manded by  Europe,  and  that  the  mere  threat  of 
violating  one  of  these  ancestral  tombs  would 
suffice  to  bring  the  Regent  and  her  son  to 
Pekin  submissive  and  yielding,  ready  to  make 
all  concessions. 

Happily  for  our  Occidental  honor,  no  one  of 
the  Allies  would  consent  to  this  means,  so  the 
yellow  and  green  faience  screens  have  not  been 
broken;  every  dragon,  every  lotus,  no  matter 
how  delicate  in  relief,  has  remained  intact.  All 
have  paused  here.  The  old  emperors,  behind  their 
everlasting  walls,  may  have  heard  the  approach  of 
the  trumpets  of  the  barbarian  army  and  the  beat- 
ing of  their  drums,  but  each  one  of  them  could 
fall  asleep  again,  tranquil  as  before,  surrounded 
by  the  empty  glory  of  his  fabulous  wealth. 


18 


VIII 
THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  PEKIN 

I 

PEKIN,  Wednesday  May  i. 

I  RETURNED  yesterday  from  my  visit  to 
the  tombs  of  the  emperors  after  three  days 
and  a  half  of  journeying  in  the  haze  created 
by  the  "  yellow  wind,"  beneath  a  heavy  sun  con- 
stantly obscured  by  the  dust.  I  am  back  once 
more  in  Pekin,  with  our  chief  general,  in  my  old 
rooms  in  the  Palace  of  the  North.  Yesterday  the 
thermometer  registered  40°  in  the  shade,  to-day 
only  8°  (a  difference  of  32°  in  twenty-four 
hours).  An  icy  wind  drives  the  rain-drops  that 
are  mingled  with  a  few  white  flakes,  and  the 
neighboring  mountains  behind  the  Summer  Pal- 
ace are  quite  covered  with  snow.  Yet  there  are 
people  in  France  who  complain  of  our  springs! 

Now  that  my  expedition  is  over,  I  ought  at 
once  to  go  back  to  Taku  and  the  squadron,  but 
the  general  wants  me  to  stay  for  a  great  fete  he 
is  to  give  to  the  staff  officers  of  the  allied  armies, 


THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN     275 

and  so  I  have  telegraphed  to  the  admiral,  asking 
for  three  days  more. 

In  the  evening  I  walk  on  the  esplanade  of  the 
Rotunda  Palace  in  company  with  Colonel  Mar- 
chand.  The  weather  is  bad,  stormy,  and  cold,  and 
the  twilight  comes  on  too  early  on  account  of  the 
rapidly  moving  clouds.  As  the  wind  parts  them 
one  gets  glimpses  of  the  mountains  behind  the 
Summer  Palace,  snowy  white  against  a  back- 
ground of  dark  clouds. 

Confusion  reigns  about  us,  but  it  is  the  confu- 
sion of  a  fete  instead  of  that  incidental  to  battle 
and  death,  as  I  had  known  it  here  last  autumn. 
Zouaves  and  African  chasseurs  are  running  about, 
carrying  ladders,  draperies,  and  armfuls  of  branches 
and  flowers.  The  old  cedars  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
beautiful  pagoda  shining  with  enamel,  lacquer,  and 
gold,  are  disguised  until  they  look  like  fruit-trees; 
upon  their  almost  sacred  branches  are  thousands 
of  yellow  balls  that  look  like  big  oranges.  Chains 
supporting  garlands  of  Chinese  lanterns  go  from 
one  to  the  other. 

It  is  Colonel  Marchand  who  has  planned  it  all. 
"  Do  you  think  it  will  be  pretty?  Do  you  think 
it  will  be  a  little  unusual?  You  see,  I  want  to  do 
it  better  than  the  others." 

The  others  were  the  Germans,  the  Americans, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  Allies  who  have  given 


276     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

these  fetes  before  the  French.  So  my  new  friend 
has  been  in  the  most  feverish  state  of  activity  for 
five  or  six  days,  in  attempting  to  do  something 
that  has  never  been  done  before,  working  far  into 
the  night  with  his  men,  who  share  his  enthusiasm, 
putting  into  this  play-work  the  same  passionate 
effort  he  put  into  conducting  his  little  army  across 
Africa.  From  time  to  time,  though,  his  smile 
betrays  that  he  is  finding  amusement  in  all  this, 
and  will  not  take  its  possible  failure  tragically,  if 
wind  and  snow  come  to  upset  the  fairyland  of  his 
dreams. 

No,  but  this  cold  is  annoying  all  the  same! 
What  shall  we  do,  since  it  is  to  take  place  in  the 
open  air  on  the  terraces  of  the  palace,  if  the  north 
wind  should  blow?  What  of  the  illuminations, 
of  the  awnings?  And  the  women,  won't  they 
freeze  in  their  evening  gowns?  For  there  are 
women  even  here  in  the  heart  of  the  Yellow  City. 

Suddenly  a  gust  of  wind  breaks  down  a  whole 
string  of  lanterns  with  pearl  pendants,  which  are 
already  hung  from  the  branches  of  the  old  cedars, 
and  upsets  a  row  of  the  flower-pots,  which  have 
been  brought  up  here  by  the  hundreds  to  give  life 
to  these  old  gardens. 


THE   LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN     277 

THURSDAY,  May  2. 

Messengers  have  been  sent  to  the  four  corners 
of  Pekin,  announcing  that  this  evening's  fete  has 
been  postponed  until  Saturday,  in  the  hope  that 
the  bad  weather  will  be  over  by  that  time.  So  I 
have  had  to  send  a  despatch,  asking  the  admiral 
for  a  prolongation  of  my  freedom.  I  came  away 
for  three  days  and  have  remained  almost  a  month, 
and  am  wearing  shirts  and  waistcoats  borrowed 
here  and  there  from  my  various  army  friends. 

This  morning  I  have  the  honor  of  breakfasting 
with  our  neighbor  in  the  Yellow  City,  Marshal 
von  Waldersee. 

Covers  are  laid  for  the  marshal  and  his  staff 
in  a  large  room  finished  in  marquetry  and  carv- 
ings, in  a  part  of  the  palace  untouched  by  the 
flames.  They  are  all  correctly  attired  in  irre- 
proachable military  garb  in  the  midst  of  this  fan- 
tastically Chinese  setting. 

It  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  sat 
down  at  a  table  with  German  officers,  and  I  had 
not  anticipated  the  pang  of  anguish  with  which  I 
arrived  among  them  as  a  guest.  Oh,  the  memo- 
ries of  thirty  years  ago,  and  the  special  aspects 
which  that  terrible  year  had  for  me! 

That  long  winter  of  1870  was  passed  in  a 
wretched  little  boat  on  the  coast  of  Prussia. 


278     THE    LAST    DAYS    OF    PEKIN 

How  well  I  remember  my  watch  on  the  cold 
decks,  —  child  that  I  was,  almost,  —  and  the  sil- 
houette of  a  certain  King  William  that  so  often 
appeared  on  the  horizon  in  pursuit  of  us,  at  the 
sight  of  which  we  always  fled,  its  balls  whizzing 
behind  us  over  the  icy  waters.  Then  the  despair 
of  feeling  that  our  small  part  there  had  been  so 
useless  and  unavailing!  We  knew  nothing  about 
it  until  long  afterward;  news  came  seldom,  and 
when  it  did  come  it  was  in  little  sealed  papers 
that  we  opened  tremblingly.  Over  each  fresh 
disaster,  over  each  new  story  of  German  cruelty, 
what  rage  filled  our  hearts,  —  childlike  in  the 
excess  of  their  violence,  —  what  vows  we  made 
among  ourselves  never  to  forget!  All  this  came 
to  me  pell-mell,  or  rather  a  rapid  synthesis  of  it 
all,  on  the  very  threshold  of  this  breakfast-room, 
even  before  I  had  crossed  the  sill,  from  the  mere 
sight  of  the  pointed  helmets  that  hung  along  the 
wall,  and  I  felt  like  going  away. 

But  I  did  not,  and  the  feeling  disappeared  in 
the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time.  Their 
welcome,  their  handshakes,  and  their  smiles  of 
good  fellowship  made  me  forget  it  in  a  second, 
for  the  moment  at  least.  At  any  rate,  it  seems 
that  there  is  not  between  them  and  us  that  racial 
antipathy  which  is  less  easily  overcome  than  the 
sharp  rancor  of  war. 


THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN     279 

During  breakfast  this  Chinese  palace  of  theirs, 
accustomed  to  the  sound  of  gongs  and  flutes, 
echoes  to  the  strains  of  "  Lohengrin "  or  the 
"Rheingold,"  played  in  the  distance  by  their  mili- 
tary band.  The  white-haired  marshal  was  good 
enough  to  give  me  a  seat  near  him,  and,  like  all 
of  our  people  who  have  had  the  honor  to  come 
under  his  influence,  I  felt  the  charm  of  his  ex- 
quisite distinction  of  manner,  of  his  kindness  and 
goodness. 

FRIDAY,  May  3. 

More  and  more  people  are  coming  back  to 
Pekin,  until  it  is  almost  as  crowded  as  of  yore. 
The  people  are  very  much  occupied  with  funerals. 
Last  summer  the  Chinese  here  were  killing  one 
another;  now  they  are  burying  one  another. 
Every  family  has  kept  its  dead  in  the  house  for 
months,  according  to  their  custom,  in  thick  cedar 
coffins,  which  somewhat  modify  the  odor  of  decay ; 
they  bring  the  dead  their  daily  meals  as  well  as 
presents;  they  burn  red  wax  candles  for  them; 
they  give  them  music;  they  play  the  flute  and  the 
gong  in  the  continual  fear  of  not  paying  them 
enough  honor  and  of  incurring  their  vengeance 
and  their  ill  will.  The  time  has  come  now  to  take 
them  to  their  graves,  with  processions  a  kilometre 
long,  with  more  flutes  and  gongs,  innumerable 


28o     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

lanterns  and  gilded  emblems,  which  they  hire  at 
high  prices;   they  ruin  themselves  for  monuments 
and  offerings;   they  scarcely  sleep  for  fear  of  see- 
ing their  dead  return.    I  do  not  remember  who  it 
was  who  described  China  as  "  a  country  where  a 
few  hundred  millions  of  living  Chinese  are  domi- 
nated and  terrorized  by  a  few  thousand  millions 
of  dead  ones."     Tombs  everywhere  and  of  every 
form ;  one  sees  nothing  else  on  the  plains  of  Pekin. 
As  for  all  the  thickets  of  cedar,  pine,  and  arbor- 
vitse,  they  are  nothing  but  funeral  parks,  walled 
in  by  double  or  triple  walls,  a  single  park  often 
being  consecrated  to  one  person,  thus  cutting  the 
living  off  from  an  enormous  amount  of  space. 
A  defunct  Lama,  whom  I  visited  to-day,  occupies 
on  his  own  account  a  space  two  or  three  kilometres 
square.    The  old  trees  in  his  park,  scarcely  leafed 
out  as  yet,  give  little  shade  from  the  sun,  which 
is  already  dangerously  hot.     In  the  centre  of  it  is 
a  marble  mausoleum, — a  pyramidal  structure  with 
small  figures  and  masses  of  white  carvings  which 
taper  skyward,  terminating  in  gilt  tips.    Scattered 
about  under  the  cedars  are  crumbling  old  temples, 
built  long  ago  to  the  memory  of  this  holy  man, 
enclosing  in  their  obscurity  a  whole  population  of 
gilded  idols  that  are  turning  to  dust.     Just  out- 
side, the  cindery  soil  where  no  one  ever  walks,  is 
strewn  with  the  resinous  cones  from  the  trees, 


THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN     281 

and  with  the  black  feathers  of  the  crows,  who  in- 
habit this  silent  place  by  the  hundreds.  As  in  the 
imperial  woods,  April  has  brought  out  a  few  violet 
gillyflowers  and  a  quantity  of  very  small  iris  of 
the  same  color. 

All  the  woods  which  are  used  for  burial  places — 
and  the  country  is  encumbered  with  them  —  re- 
semble this  one,  and  contain  the  same  old  temples, 
the  same  idols,  and  the  same  crows. 

The  plains  of  Petchili  are  an  immense  necropo- 
lis, where  the  living  tremble  lest  they  offend  one 
of  the  innumerable  dead. 

Pekin  is  not  only  being  repeopled,  but  rebuilt; 
hastily  though,  out  of  small  blackened  bricks 
from  the  ruins,  so  that  the  new  streets  will  prob- 
ably never  display  the  luxurious  fagades,  the  lacy, 
gilded  wood-work  of  former  times. 

The  great  eastern  artery  that  crosses  the  Tar- 
tar City  is,  of  all  the  streets  of  old  Pekin,  the 
nearest  to  what  it  used  to  be;  life  here  is  becom- 
ing intense,  the  people  swarm.  For  the  length  of 
a  league  this  avenue,  which  is  fifty  metres  wide, 
—  of  magnificent  proportions,  although  now  very 
much  injured,  —  is  invaded  by  thousands  of  plat- 
forms, sheds,  tents,  or  in  some  cases  simply  um- 
brellas stuck  in  the  ground,  where  the  people  who 
serve  horrible  drinks  and  food  dispense  their 


282     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

wares,  always  in  delicate  China  very  much  deco- 
rated ;  there  are  charlatans,  acupuncturers,  Punch- 
and-Judy  shows,  musicians,  and  story-tellers.  The 
crowd  is  divided  into  an  infinite  number  of  cur- 
rents by  all  these  small  shops  and  theatres,  like 
the  waters  of  a  river  filled  with  islands,  so  that 
there  is  a  constant  eddy  of  human  heads  black 
with  dust  and  filth.  Rough,  hoarse  vociferations, 
in  a  quality  of  voice  unfamiliar  to  our  ears,  are 
heard  on  all  sides,  to  an  accompaniment  of  grat- 
ing violins,  noisy  gongs  and  bells.  The  caravans 
of  enormous  Mongolian  camels,  which  all  winter 
encumber  the  streets  in  endless  processions,  have 
disappeared  in  the  solitudes  of  the  North,  together 
with  their  flat-faced  drivers,  who  wish  to  escape 
the  torrid  heat;  but  their  place  in  the  central  part 
of  the  street,  reserved  for  animals  and  vehicles,  is 
taken  by  numerous  small  horses  and  tiny  carriages, 
and  the  cracking  of  whips  is  heard  on  all  sides. 

On  the  ground  in  front  of  the  houses,  spread 
out  upon  the  mud  and  filth,  the  extravagant  rag- 
fair  that  began  last  autumn  is  still  going  on;  the 
remains  of  so  much  pillage  and  burning  are  left 
that  it  seems  as  though  there  was  no  end  to  them, 
—  magnificently  embroidered  clothing  spotted  with 
blood,  Buddhas,  grotesque  figures,  jewels,  dead 
men's  wigs,  cracked  vases,  or  precious  fragments 
of  jade. 


THE   LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN     283 

Behind  all  these  ridiculous  things,  behind  all  this 
dusty  display,  the  greater  number  of  the  houses,  in 
contrast  with  the  poverty-stricken  appearance  of 
the  crowds,  seem  astonishingly  rich  in  carvings 
and  decorations,  —  a  mass  of  openwork  and  fine 
gilding  from  top  to  bottom.  Indefatigable  artists, 
with  the  Chinese  patience  and  skill  which  confound 
us,  have  carved  crowds  of  little  figures,  monsters, 
and  birds  in  the  midst  of  flowers,  and  trees  on 
which  you  can  count  the  leaves. 

Last  summer,  while  the  Boxers  were  burning 
so  continually,  these  astonishing  fagades,  repre- 
senting an  incalculable  amount  of  human  labor, 
were  consumed  by  the  hundreds ;  they  made  Pekin 
a  veritable  museum  of  carving  and  gold,  the  like 
of  which  men  of  to-day  will  never  again  have  the 
time  to  construct. 

SATURDAY,  May  4. 

The  fete  given  by  our  general  to  the  staff  officers 
of  the  Allies  is  really  coming  off  to-night.  But 
before  this  we  are  to  have  a  celebration  among  our- 
selves :  the  inauguration  of  a  new  boulevard  in  our 
quarter,  from  the  Marble  Bridge  to  the  Yellow 
Gate,  —  a  long  boulevard  whose  construction  was 
entrusted  to  Colonel  Marchand,  and  which  is  to 
bear  the  name  of  our  general.  Never  since  the 
far-distant  epoch  when  her  network  of  paved 


284     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

avenues  was  laid  out  has  Pekin  seen  such  a  thing, 
—  a  straight,  level  roadway,  without  ruts  or 
humps,  where  carriages  may  drive  rapidly  between 
two  rows  of  young  trees. 

There  is  a  great  crowd  to  assist  at  this  inaugu- 
ration. On  both  sides  of  the  new,  freshly  gravelled, 
and  still  empty  avenue  —  barred  off  by  sentinels 
and  ropes  from  one  end  to  the  other  —  all  our 
soldiers  are  lined  up,  with  a  sprinkling  of  German 
soldiers  too,  for  they  are  quite  neighborly  with 
ours,  and  a  few  Chinese,  both  men  and  women,  in 
festive  array.  Quaint,  charming  babies,  with  cat- 
like eyes  that  slant  upward  toward  the  temple, 
occupy  the  first  row,  directly  behind  the  rope;  our 
soldiers  are  carrying  some  of  them  so  that  they 
may  see  better,  and  one  big  Zouave  is  walking  up 
and  down  with  two  Chinese  children,  three  or  four 
years  old,  one  on  each  shoulder.  There  are  people 
on  the  roofs,  too,  —  many  of  the  convalescents  are 
standing  about  on  the  tiled  roof  of  our  hospital, 
and  some  African  chasseurs,  seeking  a  choice  place, 
have  climbed  the  Gothic  tower  of  the  church, 
which,  with  the  big  tricolored  flag  floating  in  the 
breeze,  dominates  the  entire  scene. 

There  are  French  flags  over  all  the  Chinese 
doors,  and  they  are  arranged  in  groups,  like  tro- 
phies, with  lanterns  and  garlands  on  all  the  poles. 
It  is  like  a  sort  of  foreign  exotic  Fourteenth  of 


THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN     285 

July;  if  it  were  in  France  the  decorations  would 
be  commonplace;  but  here,  in  Pekin,  they  are 
touching  and  fine,  especially  when  the  military 
band  arrives,  and  the  "  Marseillaise  "  bursts  forth. 

The  inauguration  consists  simply  of  a  sort  of 
charge,  executed  on  the  fresh  gravel  by  all  the 
French  officers,  from  the  Yellow  Gate  to  the  other 
extremity  of  the  boulevard,  where  the  general 
awaits  them  on  a  balcony  trimmed  with  garlands 
of  green,  and  smilingly  offers  them  champagne. 
Then  the  frail  barriers  are  removed,  the  crowd 
disperses  gaily,  the  children  with  the  cat-like  eyes 
trudge  off  over  the  well-rolled  avenue,  and  all  is 
over. 

When  we  have  all  returned  to  France,  and  Pekin 
is  again  in  the  hands  of  the  Chinese,  I  fear  that  this 
Avenue  du  General- Vayron — though  they  now  ap- 
pear to  appreciate  it  —  will  not  last  two  winters. 


II 

EIGHT  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  long  May  twi- 
light is  almost  over,  and  the  curious  lanterns,  some 
of  glass  with  long  strings  of  pearls,  others  of  rice- 
paper  in  the  form  of  birds  or  of  lotus  blossoms,  are 
everywhere  lighted  among  the  old  cedar  branches 
on  the  esplanade  of  the  Rotunda  Palace,  which  I 


286      THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

had  known  plunged  in  such  a  melancholy  abyss  of 
sadness  and  silence.  To-night  all  is  movement, 
life,  gay  light.  Already  uniformed  officers  of  all 
the  nations  of  Europe,  and  Chinese,  in  long  silken 
robes,  with  official  head-dresses  from  which  depend 
peacock  feathers,  are  going  and  coming  amid  the 
wonderful  decorations.  A  table  for  seventy  is 
set  under  a  tent,  and  we  are  awaiting  our  incon- 
gruous assembly  of  guests. 

Followed  by  small  suites,  they  arrive  from  all 
quarters  of  Pekin,  some  on  horseback,  others  in 
carriages,  in  chairs,  or  in  sumptuous  palanquins. 
As  soon  as  any  person  of  distinction  appears  at  the 
lower  door  of  the  inclined  plane,  one  of  our  mili- 
tary band,  who  is  on  the  lookout,  orders  the  play- 
ing of  the  national  air  of  his  country.  The  Russian 
Hymn  follows  the  German,  or  the  Japanese  the 
march  of  the  Bersaglieri.  Even  the  Chinese  air 
is  heard,  for  some  one  pompously  enters  with  a 
large  red  paper,  which  proves  to  be  the  visiting- 
card  of  Li-Hung-Chang,  who  is  below,  but  who, 
in  accordance  with  the  etiquette  of  his  country, 
is  announced  before  he  makes  his  appearance. 
Preceded  by  similar  cards,  the  Chief- Justice  of 
Pekin  and  the  Representative  Extraordinary  of  the 
Empress  are  the  next  to  arrive.  These 'Chinese 
princes,  who  are  to  assist  at  our  fete,  come  in  gala 
palanquins,  with  a  cavalry  escort,  and  they  make 


THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN     287 

their  entrance  with  the  most  inscrutable  expres- 
sions on  their  faces,  followed  by  a  band  of  servants 
dressed  in  silk.  It  was  hard  to  have  them!  But 
Colonel  Marchand,  with  the  general's  permission, 
made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  invite  them.  Mixed 
in  with  our  Western  uniforms,  mandarins'  robes 
and  pointed  hats  with  the  coral  button  are  numer- 
ous. Their  presence  at  this  barbarian  feast  right 
in  the  heart  of  the  Imperial  City,  which  we  have 
profaned,  will  remain  one  of  the  most  singular  in- 
consistencies of  our  time. 

Such  a  length  of  table  as  there  is,  —  its  legs 
resting  on  an  imperial  carpet  which  seems  to  be 
made  of  thick  yellow  velvet!  Bunches  of  flowers 
are  arranged  in  priceless,  gigantic  old  cloisonne 
vases  that  have  been  taken  out  of  the  reserves  of 
the  Empress  for  a  single  night.  Marshal  von 
Waldersee,  with  the  wife  of  the  French  minister 
at  his  side,  occupies  the  seat  of  honor;  then  two 
bishops  in  violet  robes,  the  generals  and  officers  of 
the  seven  allied  nations,  five  or  six  women  in 
evening  dress,  and,  lastly,  the  three  great  princes 
of  China,  so  enigmatical  in  their  embroidered  silks, 
their  eyes  partly  concealed  by  their  ceremonial  hats 
and  falling  plumes. 

At  the  close  of  this  strange  dinner,  when  the 
roses  in  the  big,  precious  vases  are  beginning  to 


288     THE   LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

hang  their  heads,  our  general,  toward  the  close  of 
his  toast,  turns  to  the  Yellow  Princes :  "  Your 
presence  here  among  us,"  he  says,  "  is  a  sufficient 
proof  that  we  did  not  come  here  to  make  war 
against  China,  but  only  against  an  abominable 
sect/'  etc. 

Then  the  Empress's  representative  takes  up  the 
ball  with  a  suppleness  characteristic  of  the  far 
East,  and,  without  turning  a  hair,  replies  (he 
was  secretly  a  furious  Boxer)  :  "  In  the  name  of 
Her  Imperial  Chinese  Majesty,  I  thank  the  gen- 
erous nations  of  Europe  for  having  extended  a 
helping  hand  to  our  government  in  one  of  the 
gravest  crises  it  has  ever  passed  through." 

A  stupefied  silence  follows,  and  then  glasses  are 
emptied. 

During  the  banquet  the  esplanade  is  filled  with 
many  uniformed  and  gaily  dressed  persons,  of  all 
sorts  and  colors,  who  are  invited  for  the  evening. 
The  toasts  having  come  to  an  end  with  the  reply  of 
the  Chinese,  I  lean  over  the  edge  of  the  terrace  to 
watch  from  on  high  and  from  afar  the  lighting 
up  of  the  entire  place  below. 

Coming  out  from  under  the  awnings  and  the 
cedar  branches,  which  obscure  the  view,  it  is  a  sur- 
prise and  a  delight  to  see  the  borders  of  the  lake 
and  the  melancholy,  silent  landscape,  —  in  ordi- 
nary times  dark,  disturbing,  ghostly  places  as  soon 


THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN     289 

as  night  approaches,  —  as  the  lights  come  on  as  if 
for  some  fantastic  apotheosis. 

Soldiers  have  been  stationed  in  all  the  old  palaces 
and  temples  that  are  scattered  amongst  the  trees, 
and  in  less  than  an  hour,  by  climbing  along  the 
enamelled  tiles,  they  have  lighted  innumerable  red 
lanterns,  which  form  lines  of  fire,  outlining  the 
curves  of  the  multiple-storied  roofs  and  empha- 
sizing the  Chinese  characteristic  of  the  architecture 
and  the  eccentricity  of  the  miradors  and  towers. 
All  along  the  tragic  lake  where  the  bodies  still  lie, 
concealed  in  the  grass,  is  a  row  of  lights;  and  as 
far  as  one  can  see  the  entire  shadowy  park,  so 
ruined  and  desolate,  creates  an  illusion  of  gaiety. 
The  old  dungeon  on  the  Island  of  Jade  throws  out 
bright  rays  and  blue  fire.  The  Empress's  gondolas, 
so  long  stationary,  and  more  or  less  damaged,  are 
out  to-night  on  the  reflecting  waters,  which,  with 
the  lights,  remind  one  of  Venice.  For  a  single 
night  an  appearance  of  life  pervades  these  phan- 
toms of  real  things.  And  all  this,  never  seen 
before,  will  never  be  seen  again. 

What  an  astounding  contrast  with  what  I  used 
to  see  when  I  was  alone  in  this  palace  in  the  autumn 
twilight !  Along  the  lake  groups  of  people  in  ball 
dress  instead  of  corpses,  —  my  only  neighbors 
last  year,  —  and  the  soft  mildness  of  this  May 
night  instead  of  the  glacial  cold  with  which  I 

19 


290     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

used  to  shiver  as  soon  as  the  sun  began  to  go 
down. 

In  the  foreground,  at  the  entrance  to  the  Marble 
Bridge,  the  great  Arc  de  Triomphe  of  China,  re- 
splendent with  gilding,  shines  out  against  the 
evening  sky,  its  values  all  emphasized  by  a  profu- 
sion of  lights.  Then  the  bridge  across  the  lake  is 
much  lighted,  although  it  seems  luminous  itself 
in  its  eternal  whiteness.  In  the  distance  the  whole 
phantasmagoria  —  empty  palaces  and  pagodas  — 
emerges  from  the  obscurity  of  the  trees,  and  is  re- 
flected in  the  water  in  lines  of  fire. 

Our  five  hundred  guests  are  scattered  about  in 
sympathetic  groups  on  the  borders  of  the  lake  be- 
neath the  spring-like  verdure  of  the  willows,  along 
the  Marble  Bridge  or  in  the  imperial  gondolas. 
As  they  come  down  from  the  terrace  they  are  given 
gaily  decorated  lanterns  on  little  sticks,  so  that 
after  a  time  these  balls  of  color,  scattered  along 
the  paths,  seem  from  a  distance  like  a  company  of 
glow-worms. 

From  where  I  stand  women  in  light  evening 
wraps  may  be  seen  on  the  arms  of  officers,  cross- 
ing the  white  paving-stones  of  the  bridge,  or 
seated  in  the  stern  of  the  long  imperial  barques, 
softly  propelled  by  the  oarsmen.  How  strange  it 
seems  to  see  these  Europeans,  almost  all  of  whom 
underwent  the  tortures  of  the  siege,  walking  quietly 


THE    LAST    DAYS    OF    PEKIN     291 

about  in  dinner  dress  in  the  retreat  of  the  sover- 
eigns who  had  secretly  conspired  to  kill  them! 

Decidedly  the  place  has  lost  all  its  horrors; 
there  is  so  much  light,  so  many  people,  so  many 
soldiers,  that  all  the  vague  forms  of  ghosts  and 
evil  spirits  have  been  driven  away  for  the  night. 

Something  like  approaching  thunder  is  heard  in 
the  distance,  which  proves  to  be  the  noise  of  about 
fifty  tambourines  announcing  the  arrival  of  the 
procession.  It  was  to  form  at  the  Yellow  Gate, 
so  as  to  follow  the  line  of  the  new  avenue,  and  to 
disband  at  the  foot  of  the  Rotunda  Palace.  The 
lights  of  the  first  division  appear  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Marble  Bridge,  and  begin  to  cross  its  mag- 
nificent white  archway.  Cavalry,  infantry,  and 
music,  all  seem  to  be  rolling  on  in  our  direction, 
with  enough  noise  from  the  brasses  and  the  tam- 
bourines to  make  the  sepulchral  walls  of  the  Violet 
City  tremble,  while  above  the  heads  of  the  thou- 
sands of  soldiers  groups  and  rows  of  extrava- 
gantly Chinese  colored  lanterns  are  swinging  to 
the  movement  of  the  horses'  hoofs  or  to  the 
rhythm  of  human  shoulders. 

The  troops  have  passed,  but  the  procession  is 
not  nearly  over.  A  sharp,  delirious  noise  that  gets 
on  one's  nerves  follows  the  marches  played  by  our 
musicians,  —  the  noise  of  gongs,  zithers,  cymbals, 
bells.  At  the  same  time  gigantic  green  and  yellow 


292     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF    PEKIN 

banners,  curiously  slashed  and  of  unusual  propor- 
tions, begin  to  appear  on  the  Marble  Bridge,  borne 
by  an  advancing  company  of  tall,  slender  persons, 
with  astonishing  underpinnings,  who  are  swing- 
ing along  like  bears.  They  prove  to  be  my  stilt - 
walkers  from  Y-Tchou  and  from  La'i-Chou-Chien 
from  the  vicinity  of  the  tombs,  who  have  taken  a 
three  or  four  days'  journey  in  order  to  participate 
in  this  French  fete! 

Behind  them  a  crescendo  of  gongs,  cymbals, 
and  other  diabolical  Chinese  instruments,  an- 
nounces the  arrival  of  the  dragons,  —  red  and 
green  beasts  twenty  metres  long.  In  some  way 
or  other  they  are  lighted  from  within,  which  by 
night  gives  them  an  incandescent  appearance; 
above  the  heads  of  the  crowds  they  twist  and  un- 
dulate like  the  sulphurescent  serpents  in  a  Budd- 
hist hell.  The  entire  scene  reflected  in  the  water 
— the  outline  of  palace  and  pagoda  with  their  mul- 
tiple roofs  —  is  emphasized  by  lines  of  red  lights 
that  shine  brightly  this  moonless  and  cloudy  night. 

When  the  big  serpents  have  gone  past,  the 
Marble  Bridge  continues  to  pour  at  our  feet  a 
stream  of  humanity,  although  an  irregular  one, 
which  moves  tumultuously  along  with  a  formi- 
dable noise.  It  is  the  rest  of  our  troops,  the  free 
soldiers  following  the  procession  with  lanterns, 
also  singing  the  "  Marseillaise,"  or  the  "  Sambre- 


THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEKIN     293 

et-Meuse,"  at  the  top  of  their  lungs.  Along  with 
them  are  German  soldiers  arm-in-arm  with  them, 
increasing  the  volume  of  sound  by  adding  their 
voices  to  the  others,  and  singing  with  all  their 
might  the  old  French  songs. 

Midnight.  The  myriads  of  little  red  lanterns 
on  the  cornices  of  the  old  palace  and  pagodas  have 
burned  themselves  out.  Obscurity  and  the  usual 
silence  have  come  back  to  the  lake  and  to  the  im- 
perial woods.  The  Chinese  princes  have  discreetly 
withdrawn,  followed  by  their  silk-robed  attend- 
ants, and  have  been  borne  far  away  in  their  palan- 
quins to  their  own  dwellings  in  another  part  of  the 
shadowy  city. 

It  is  now  time  for  the  cotillon,  after  a  ball  that 
was  necessarily  short,  —  a  ball  that  seemed  an 
impossibility,  for  there  were  scarcely  a  dozen  danc- 
ing women,  even  including  a  pretty  little  twelve- 
year-old  girl  and  her  governess,  to  five  hundred 
dancing  men.  It  took  place  in  the  beautiful  gilt 
pagoda,  converted  for  the  night  into  a  ball-room; 
the  dancers  occupied  the  centre  of  the  great  empty 
space  beneath  the  downcast  gaze  of  the  big  ala- 
baster goddess  in  the  golden  robes,  who  was  my 
companion  of  last  summer  in  the  solitude  of  this 
same  palace,  together  with  a  certain  yellow  and 
white  cat.  Poor  goddess!  A  bed  of  natural  iris 


294     THE    LAST    DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

has  been  arranged  for  the  evening  at  her  feet,  and 
the  injured  background  of  her  altar  draped  in  blue 
satin,  against  the  magnificent  folds  of  which  her 
figure  stands  out  in  ideal  whiteness;  her  golden 
dress,  embroidered  with  sparkling  stones,  shows 
to  great  advantage. 

In  spite  of  all  effort  to  light  this  sanctuary  and 
to  decorate  it  with  lanterns  in  the  form  of  flowers 
and  birds,  it  is  too  freakish  a  place  for  a  ball- 
room. It  is  impossible  to  light  up  the  corners  and 
the  gilded  arches  of  the  ceiling,  and  the  presiding 
goddess  is  so  mysteriously  pale  as  to  be  embar- 
rassing with  that  smile  of  hers,  which  seems  to 
pity  the  puerility  of  our  Occidental  hopping  and 
skipping;  her  eyes  are  downcast,  that  she  may 
not  see.  This  feeling  of  embarrassment  is  not 
peculiar  to  myself,  for  the  young  woman  who  is 
leading  the  cotillon,  seized  by  some  sudden  fancy, 
leaves  the  room,  taking  with  her  the  tambourine 
she  is  using  in  the  figure  that  has  just  begun,  and 
is  followed  by  both  dancers  and  onlookers,  so  that 
the  temple  is  emptied,  and  our  poor  little  cotillon, 
languidly  continued  for  a  time  in  the  open  air, 
comes  to  an  end  under  the  cedars  of  the  esplanade, 
where  a  few  lanterns  are  still  burning. 

One  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Most  of  the  guests 
have  departed,  having  far  to  go  in  the  darkness 


THE    LAST    DAYS   OF    PEK1N     295 

before  reaching  their  dwellings.  A  few  of  the 
particularly  faithful  among  the  "  Allies  "  remain, 
it  is  true,  around  the  buffet  where  the  champagne 
continues  to  flow,  and  the  toasts  to  France  grow 
warmer  and  warmer. 

I  was  about  to  go  off  alone  to  my  own  palace, 
not  far  away,  and  was,  in  fact,  already  on  the  in- 
clined plane  leading  to  the  Lake  of  the  Lotus,  when 
some  one  called  out:  "  Wait  for  me;  it  will  rest 
me  to  go  along  with  you." 

It  was  Colonel  Marchand,  and  we  walked  along 
together  over  the  Marble  Bridge.  The  great  wind- 
ing sheet  of  silence  and  of  night  has  fallen  upon 
the  Imperial  City  that  had  been  filled  for  a  single 
evening  with  music  and  light. 

"Well,"  he  questioned,  "how  did  it  go?  what 
was  your  impression  of  it  all  ?  "  And  I  replied 
as  I  felt,  —  that  it  was  magnificently  unusual,  in 
a  setting  absolutely  unparalleled. 

Yet  my  friend  Marchand  seems  rather  de- 
pressed, and  we  scarcely  speak,  except  for  the 
occasional  word  that  suffices  between  friends. 
There  was,  for  one  thing,  the  feeling  of  melan- 
choly that  comes  from  the  fading  away  into  the 
past  of  an  event  —  futile  though  it  was  —  which 
had  brought  us  a  few  days'  distraction  from  the 
preoccupations  of  life;  and  more  than  all  this, 
there  -was  another  feeling,  common  to  us  both, 


296     THE    LAST   DAYS   OF   PEKIN 

which  we  understood  almost  without  words  as 
our  heels  clicked  on  the  marble  pavement  in  the 
silence  that  from  moment  to  moment  grew  more 
solemn.  It  seemed  to  us  that  this  evening  had 
commemorated  in  a  way  the  irremediable  down- 
fall of  Pekin,  or  rather  the  downfall  of  a  people. 
Whatever  happens  now,  even  though  the  remark- 
able Asiatic  court  comes  back  here,  which  seems 
improbable,  Pekin  is  over,  its  prestige  gone,  its 
mysteries  are  open  to  the  light  of  day. 

Yet  this  Imperial  City  was  one  of  the  last 
refuges  on  earth  of  the  marvellous  and  the  un- 
known, one  of  the  last  bulwarks  of  a  humanity 
so  old  as  to  be  incomprehensible  —  nay,  almost 
fabulous  —  to  men  of  our  times. 


Glimpses  of  China 

and  Chinese  Homes 

By     EDWARD     S.     MORSE 

Formerly  Professor  of  Zoology  in  the  Imperial  University,  Tokyo, 
author  of  "Japanese  Homes  and  their  Surroundings,"  etc. 

With  more  than  fifty  sketches  from  the  author*  s  journal. 

DURING  a  short  visit  to  China,  Professor  Morse  endeavored  to  study  more 
particularly  the  domestic  ways  of  the  people,  and  especially  to  sketch  in 
rapid  outline  their  rooms,   kitchens,  and  the  homely  details  of  domestic 
life.      His  description  of  street  scenes,  a  Manchu  drill-room,  Chinese  mob,  street 
magicians,  a  pottery  town,  food,  clothing,  and  many  other  details  of  Chinese  life 


Library,  Private  House,  Shanghai. 

will  surely  be  of  interest  to  the  general  reader.  His  four  years'  residence  in  Japan, 
resulting  in  his  well-known  book,  "Japanese  Homes  and  Their  Surroundings," 
and  the  superb  quarto  Catalogue  of  Japanese  Pottery  published  by  the  Museum  of 
Fine  Arts,  Boston,  was  a  thorough  training  for  the  journalist's  work  in  China. 
While  his  Chinese  experiences  were  of  the  briefest  nature,  his  methods  of  observa- 
tion, coupled  with  an  intimate  knowledge  of  a  cognate  nation,  give  an  added  value 
to  the  work.  The  reader  will  find  for  the  first  time  hasty  pen-and-ink  sketches 
of  matters  about  which  he  has  read,  and,  despite  the  abounding  literature  on  the 
subject,  many  features  shown  in  a  new  light. 

I2mo.     Decorated  Cloth.     $1.60  net. 

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254   WASHINGTON   STREET,   BOSTON,   MASS. 


The  Town  of  the  Conqueror 

BY  ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 

Author   of  "  The  American  Husband  in  Paris," 
"Three  Normandy  Inns/'  "Cathedral  Days,"  etc. 

WITH  NUMEROUS   ILLUSTRATIONS    FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 
J2mo.    Decorated  Cloth,  $2.00* 


Opinions  on  /-alatsr. 

The  book  is  one  to  read  through  with  delight,  and  to  return  to  with  re- 
newed delight. — Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

The  famous  but  well-nigh  forgotten  town  furnishes  Mrs.  Dodd  with  an 
admirable  subject.  .  .  .  We  have  the  same  vivacious  and  humorous  sallies,  the 
same  sympathy,  appreciation,  and  insight,  which  so  charmed  us  in  "  Cathedral 
Days"  and  "Three  Normandy  Inns." — Commercial  Advertiser,  N.  Y. 

The  chief  charm  of  Mrs.  Dodd's  books  is  that  quite  unexpectedly,  while 
you  are  reading  about  some  quaint  corner  of  a  quaint  old  Norman  village,  she 
will  lead  you  off  on  the  trail  of  a  pretty  little  love  story  or  other  romance  of 
delightful  consequence,  and  so  before  you  realize  it  you  feel  saturated  with 
local  atmosphere  and  personally  interested  in  the  most  trivial  affairs  of  the 
quaint  people  you  meet  in  her  pages. — Rochester  Herald. 

Mrs.  Dodd  has  eyes,  sentiment,  humor,  and  a  facile  pen,  all  of  which 
are  stimulated  by  Normandy  and  things  Norman  until  not  one  line  she  writes 
is  dull. — Chicago  Tribune. 

The  illustrations  alone  are  sufficient  to  make  a  fascinating  volume,  and 
they  reproduce  the  present-day  quaintness  of  an  ever-quaint  country  with 
fidelity.  Seldom  have  the  attractions  of  a  country  fair  been  more  vividly  por- 
trayed than  in  the  bright  and  chatty  rehearsal  of  the  doings  at  the  Falaise 
"Eleventh-Century"  fair. — Living  Age,  Boston. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


BY  ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 

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on 

The  reader  who  lays  down  this  book  without  wishing  there  were  more  of  it 
is  to  be  pitied.  ...  It  is  rarely  that  so  thoroughly  delightful  a  bit  of  travel  and 
study  is  discovered.  These  sketches  of  Normandy  coast  scenes,  people,  and 
inns,  are  really  quite  ideally  good.  The  author  has  done  good  work  before,  but 
nothing  so  good  as  this.  .  .  .  The  inns  so  capitally  treated  are  at  Villerville, 
Dives,  and  Mont  St.  Michel,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  which  of  them  is  the  most 
fascinating.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

Charming  alike  in  matter  and  literary  style.  She  has  the  eye  of  an  artist 
for  the  picturesque,  and  the  art  of  presenting  her  impressions  in  pure  and  grace- 
ful English.  Nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  the  description  of  Villerville 
in  the  opening  chapters.  It  literally  "  breathes  of  the  sea  "  and  of  the  fisher-folk 
who  have  their  homes  within  the  quaint  old  village.  —  San  Francisco  Call. 

No  one,  we  fancy,  will  be  able  to  close  this  enticing  volume  without  a  desire 
to  cross  the  sea  and  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  its  author,  from  Villerville  to 
Dives,  from  Dives  to  Caen,  thence  to  Coutance,  and  finally  to  the  summit  of  the 
cathedral-crowned  Mont  St.  Michel.  .  .  .  She  has  the  art  of  making  pictures 
for  her  readers  which  pulsate  with  real  atmosphere  and  glow  with  veritable 
color.  There  is  quick  apprehension,  close  observation,  a  keen  sense  of  the 
comical  —  and  there  is  also,  here  and  there,  a  delicate  touch  of  feeling.— 
Literary  World. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


Catfteftral 


Tour  in  Southern  England 

BY  ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 

New  edition.  Illustrated  with  Sketches  and 
Photographs  by  E.  ELDON  DEANE.  J2mo 
Cloth,  extra.  Price,  $1.50  ........ 


Opinions  on  Catfjefcral 

A  real  addition  to  the  brief  list  of  books  that  give  zest  to  a  tourist.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Dodd's  recital  of  her  carriage  tour  through  the  lanes  and  by-paths  of  Southern 
England  is  in  fact  unique. '  It  has  nothing  in  common  with  those  hackneyed 
way-books  which  direct  us  to  haunts  whose  beauty  they  do  not  in  the  least  cap- 
ture and  convey.  .  .  .  They  hire  a  T-cart ;  a  horse,  christened  "  Ballad,"  with 
whom  they  and  we  are  soon  on  terms  of  choice  acquaintanceship ;  and  proceed 
with  light  belongings  over  an  ideal  route,  stopping  at  ivied  country  inns,  when 
and  where  they  choose,  subject  to  nothing  but  the  weather  and  their  own  will. 
Their  tour  begins  at  Arundel  in  Sussex,  and  ends  at  Exeter  in  Devon,  a  journey 
of  six  enchanted  weeks,  —  a  blended  succession  of  rural  villages,  towns,  heaths 
(Stonehenge  and  Bath  taken  in  by  the  way),  manor-house,  castles,  and  beyond 
and  over  all  the  sacred  and  inspiring  Cathedrals  of  Chichester,  Winchester, 
Salisbury,  Wells,  and  Exeter.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Dodd's  wholesome  and  winning  English 
style,  thoroughly  individual,  lightened  with  humor,  and  marked  with  rare  beauty 
in  descriptive  passages,  is  the  unflagging  attraction  of  the  book.  — EDMUND  C. 
STEDMAN,  in  the  Book  Buyer. 

A  very  pleasant  narrative  of  travel.  —  London  Spectator, 
How  one  can  imprison  so  much  English  sunshine  and  fragrance,  and  trans- 
mute it  into  style,  and   spread  it  out  on  the  printed  page,  as  our  American 
saunterer  in  England  has  done,  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  authorship.  — The  Critic. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


GLIMPSES  OF  CALIFORNIA  AND  THE  MISSIONS.  By  HELEN 
JACKSON,  author  of  "  Ramona,"  etc.  Ne^w  Edition.  With  37  pictures 
by  Henry  Sandham,  including  numerous  full-page  plates,  izmo.  Dec- 
orated cloth.  $1-50. 

Mrs.  Jackson's  delightful  California  articles,  hitherto  printed  with  her  European  travel 
sketches,  are  now  published  in  a  separate  volume  with  the  addition  of  a  series  of  pictures  by 
Henry  Sandham,  who  accompanied  Mrs.  Jackson  in  the  California  trip  which  gave  sugges- 
tions for  her  famous  romance,  "Ramona." 

JOURNEYS  WITH  DUMAS.  THE  SPERONARA.  Translated  from 
the  French  of  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley. 
i6mo.  Cloth.  $1.25. 

In  1834  the  great  French  novelist  set  forth  upon  a  series  of  journeys  which  furnished 
material  for  some  delightful  sketches  and  stories.  The  great  writer's  tales  and  anecdotes 
are  as  fresh  and  entertaining  as  ever,  and  from  this  feast  Miss  Wormeley,  the  translator  of 
Balzac,  has  gathered  a  series  of  volumes,  the  first  of  which  is  now  offered.  It  describes  a 
Mediterranean  trip,  taking  the  reader  through  Sicily. 

IN  AND  AROUND  THE  GRAND  CANYON.  The  Grand  Canyon 
of  the  Colorado  River  in  Arizona.  By  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES. 
With  thirty  full-page  plates  and  seventy  illustrations  in  the  text.  8vo. 

$3.00. 

An  illustrated  work  of  which  too  much  can  scarcely  be  said  in  praise.  "The  Grand 
Canyon"  is  one  of  the  world's  wonders,  and  this  volume  is  the  most  thorough  and  satis- 
fying presentation  of  its  many  rugged  attractions  thus  far  offered. — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

THE  ISLES  AND  SHRINES  OF  GREECE.  By  SAMUEL  J.  BARROWS. 
With  19  full-page  plates.  8vo.  $2.00. 

>  The  volume  abounds  in  interest  for  the  general  reader;  it  contains  much  information 
of  value  for  students  of  Greek  life,  language,  religion,  and  art ;  it  is  an  engaging  book  on 
an  inspiring  theme.  The  illustrations  are  beautiful  reproductions  of  Greek  monuments, 
life,  and  scenery. — The  Christian  Register. 

TO  ROME  ON  A  TRICYCLE.  Two  Pilgrims'  Progress  from  Fair 
Florence  to  the  Eternal  City  of  Rome.  By  JOSEPH  PENNELL  and 
ELIZABETH  ROBINS,  authors  of  "A  Canterbury  Pilgrimage,"  etc.  With 
pen  drawings  by  Joseph  Pennell.  Ne<w  edition,  izmo.  -$1.50. 

LAZY  TOURS  IN  SPAIN  AND  ELSEWHERE.  By  LOUISE  CHAND- 
LER MOULTON.  izmo.  $1.50. 

The  book  is  one  to  enchain  the  reader  in  his  lazy  hours,  or  beguile  a  journey,  with 
its  charm  and  color  of  foreign  scenes. — Lilian  ff kiting. 

RANDOM  RAMBLES.  By  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.    i8mo.   $1.25. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


